The Favour
by Timeless A-Peel
Summary: Episode 5.5. All that Mike Gambit was asked to do was one small favour to help a friend. It wasn't meant to cost anything, and it certainly wasn't meant to potentially put his career or his personal relationships at risk. But he did it just the same, and even he might not know why...
1. Lunch

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

Author's Note: Hi there. Remember me?

Awhile back, life got interrupted in all sorts of ways, good and bad, and I got out of the habit of writing regularly. The ideas were there, but the motivation wasn't. I've been meaning to get back into the swing of things for awhile, but it hasn't been easy. I feel rusty, quite frankly, and I'm sort of working my writer's muscles back into shape using a couple of ideas that have been sitting unfinished on my hard drive. Hopefully it'll prime me to get into writing again, and motivate me to finish some stories that I've wanted to write for years. Fingers crossed...

In the meantime, this is the first of those "exercises," both of which took much longer to put together than they had any right to. Bit of a different dynamic in this one, hatched from an idea I had last summer. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

The clank of cutlery against dishes mixed with the chatter of enthusiastic diners as the restaurant's lunchtime crowd made the most of its noontime break, however long or short it was destined to be. Seated in the midst of it all, but somehow managing to blend into the melee, Mike Gambit reached out without leaning forward, picked up his glass of Scotch, and took a sip, eyes fixed on the restaurant's entrance all the while. Truth be told, it was a bit early for his favourite tipple, but he couldn't bring himself to order anything more substantial until his lunch 'date', if she could be called that, put in an appearance, and ordering a drink was the only way he could think of to fend off the wait staff, who clearly wanted to evict him from his table. He swallowed the dark amber liquid, then allowed himself a quick glance at his watch. She was coming up on fifteen minutes late for a meeting she herself had arranged. Not desperately tardy, but if she didn't appear soon, he'd be forced to surrender the table, either because the waitstaff demanded it, or because his lunchbreak was up, and he had to return to the Ministry. He sighed and pondered the possible ramifications, reputational and otherwise, that would come from drinking a second Scotch on an empty stomach, in the middle of the day no less, when a flash of distinctly-shaded hair caught the corner of his eye, and a moment later she swept in, the blush of exertion tingeing her cheeks, but still perfectly composed and impeccably put-together. He rose to his feet to greet her, and she leaned in to give him the briefest of greeting pecks on the cheek, lips barely brushing his skin in her haste. All the same, he felt the eyes of at least a half dozen of their fellow diners swivel round to fix on them.

"I'm sorry, Mike," she apologised with sincerity, setting a satchel on the floor next to her chair. "There was a meeting I was certain was going to wrap up in plenty of time, but the last proposal by one of our researchers ran twice as long as scheduled."

"That's all right, Emma," he assured, returning to his seat as she settled into her own chair. "I'm just happy not be stood up in front of an audience." He nodded at the huddled group of waiters silently fuming and cursing their luck. "I held the fort in the meantime."

Emma Peel, as she had once been known, graced him with one of her infamous lopsided smiles, and brushed a strand of rich auburn hair back from her face. "They are quite enthusiastic here, aren't they? I'm surprised you haven't turned the table over and barricaded yourself behind it."

"That was my next move," he quipped, and Emma's smile broadened. Technically, she was Emma Knight now, but after knowing her as the legend that was Emma Peel for so long, that seemed like the wrong thing to call her, but 'Mrs. Peel' was now off-limits to all but a select few. Calling her 'Emma' sidestepped the issue entirely, with the added bonus of making her seem more of a person, and less of an entry in a Ministry-sanctioned training manual.

"Then I think it's only right that we put their minds at ease and order," Emma suggested, casting a cursory glance over the menu. "Do you know what you want?"

Gambit froze with his glass halfway to his lips, and levelled his gaze at her over the rim. "I have a pretty good idea," he murmured, voice dropping an octave.

Emma's perfectly-gauged reaction consisted of a solitary arched eyebrow, and widened eyes. "I'm afraid this lunch is going to be more business than pleasure, Mike," she told him, even as she indicated for the waiter to attend their table. She cast him an inquiring glance. "Disappointed?"

"I have two scotches in me to cushion the blow," Gambit reminded. He'd expected to be rebuffed, but being rebuffed by Emma Knight was an experience in itself, or at least it was when she did it to him. He expected it would be infinitely less pleasant if he was in her bad books. "I've been turned down before. I'll survive."

"Not that often," Emma corrected knowingly, just as the waiter arrived. They ordered, and when he departed, she added, "I'd like to ask a favour."

"I'm not doing in any more of your jealous lovers," Gambit deadpanned.

Emma's smile was broad this time, involved both halves of her face, and was accompanied by a little chuckle. "Don't worry, I have my own ways of dealing with those kinds of problems."

"I'll bet you do," Gambit replied, eyes glittering. "All right, what do you need?"

"I need you to find someone," Emma declared, reaching down to retrieve her satchel from the floor.

"Anyone I know?"

Emma extracted a file from the satchel and answered, without looking up, "Peter."

"Peter?" Gambit repeated, wracking his brain for a face to go with the name in the world of espionage. "Peter who?" He paused as one possibility occurred to him, felt his eyes widen. "Not Peter _Peel_?"

"Yes," Emma said simply, returning the satchel to the floor.

Gambit was a bit unsure as to how to react to this take this news, and decided to tackle the questions whirring around his brain head-on. "Is a miraculous reconciliation in the works?"

"Much to the disappointment of the gossip columnists, no," Emma said firmly. "But it does concern our marriage, at least tangentially."

Gambit settled back in his chair. "I'm listening."

Emma began to explain. "Early on in our marriage, Peter helped Knight perfect a new type of airplane engine. The specifics don't come into it, but he received partial ownership of the rights to the engine for his trouble. Knight's been using it in its products for years, but we've recently struck a deal to have our engines placed in another company's planes, and to do that..."

"You need Peter's permission," Gambit finished, seeing where this was leading. "But you can't find him."

"No," Emma confirmed, lips pursed in annoyance. "I've made enquiries." She handed the file across the table to Gambit, who took it and opened it up on the tabletop. "I tried his house, but there was no answer. He's taken a leave of absence from the company he's been working for, and he left instructions that all communications and other inquiries were to be sent to his lawyer."

"And you called the lawyer?" Gambit inquired, skimming the first page of the file and lifting it to peruse the second.

Emma nodded. "Several times. All he'll do is take a message and give it to Peter when he returns. I've told him it's urgent, but he refuses to tell me where Peter's gone, or to give me a contact number. He won't even confirm whether he's in the country or not. It's as though he's dropped off the face of the earth."

"And you want me to find him." Gambit lifted the folder off the table so the recently-arrived waiter could replace it with a plate.

Emma nodded, then added, once the waiter was gone, "I thought your connections would take you farther than my inquiries."

Gambit closed the file, laced his fingers, and leaned across the table. "Don't take this the wrong way, but your connections might be just as good as mine. Why don't you use them?"

Emma pursed her lips. "I left the Ministry a decade ago, Mike, and you know as well as anyone that I haven't kept in touch. Besides, things have changed. They don't approve of amateurs any longer, and they certainly don't want them poking around in their top secret files. You need all the right clearances and IDs, and I'm sadly lacking in those."

"But you're still Emma Peel," Gambit pointed out. "No matter what you're called now. That's got to count for something."

"It might," Emma allowed. "But I'd attract attention if I went through the proper channels, and I'd prefer that the whole of the Ministry remain blissfully unaware of my business. You, on the other hand, can make much subtler inquiries."

"Even if I do find Peter," Gambit said slowly, "how do you know he'll agree to sign the papers?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

"He's your ex-husband. You tell me."

"The divorce wasn't acrimonious," Emma declared, propping her elbow on her chair and letting her head rest against her thumb and forefinger. "We both eventually came to the conclusion that there wasn't a relationship left to salvage. It had an almost depressing inevitability about it. Neither of us have anything to gain by making life more difficult for the other, and Peter's not childish enough to stoop to that level even if he did. He'll sign. All we need to do is find him."

Gambit arched an eyebrow. "'We'?" he repeated.

"Well, presumably you will check in on occasion and tell me what you've found. And we can—"

"Put our heads together?" Gambit finished knowingly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Yes," Emma confirmed. "It's the least I can do, especially since you're granting a favour. Unless, of course, you think you can work it out on your own."

"I could," Gambit said jauntily, and Emma arched an eyebrow at the unexpected burst of male hubris, "but that would mean no more lunches, and I try to create as many bright spots in life as possible."

"Mmm-hmm," was Emma's non-committal reply, but her eyes were dancing at the compliment. "I hate to be a dark cloud, but I won't have time for another lunch in the next few weeks. We may have to choose another rendez-vous."

"Don't worry. I'm nothing if not flexible." Gambit's eyebrows waggled wickedly. "I'll poke around and call you in a day or two. Okay?"

"That will do nicely," Emma agreed, looking relieved. "Thank you, Mike. This will be a great help."

"It's my pleasure," Gambit dismissed, glancing at his watch. "And I'd better finish this before I go back. If I take it with me, it won't survive Purdey..."


	2. Lies

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

Author's Note: Managing to squeeze an update in here. Hopefully the chapters will get longer as things move along. It would have been an overly-long chapter to post and edit if I broke the flow later on. Anyway, here's a short update to keep things moving along.

* * *

Gambit was right to be worried about his lunch's fate. When he returned to the Ministry, Gambit found Purdey waiting in the long line that signified the return of the lunchtime crowd to the Ministry's non-descript corridors. Gambit knew that if Purdey had caught him returning with food, she may have used it to sustain her through an arduous five or so minutes of queuing. As it was, she simply turned her head as he approached, and looked him up and down with mild disapproval.

"You're late," she proclaimed, as though she were the last word on these matters.

"Not much more than you," Gambit pointed out, doing his part to give life to the latest of their little exchanges-cum-debates. It took more effort on his part than it had any right to, but he'd found that to be par for the course lately. Purdey would probably attribute it to some form early-onset senility brought on by the unfortunate combination of being a) male, and b) the sufferer of too many blows to the head. Unfortunately for her, Gambit had his own theories, which made hers seem preferable by comparison. Not that he was going to give her a chance to voice it.

"I'll have you know I've been here for 103 seconds," Purdey countered, pointing her chin at the clock hanging above the Ministry's inner door, blissfully unaware of Gambit's pessimistic train of thought. "That puts me in the queue seven seconds before the official end of lunch at one."

"It would," Gambit agreed mildly, "if that clock wasn't three minutes slow. The clerks fixed it to give themselves extra time to get in. I thought everyone knew that." He caught Purdey's blank expression and added, with just a touch of smugness, "Unless no one in your training class bothered to pass it along."

Purdey opened her mouth to reply, then seemed to realise that it would only end up making her look more foolish, and tsked instead. "That still makes you late," she reminded, determined not to accept defeat so easily. Gambit was glad. Getting one up on Purdey was a rarity to be relished, but the day she didn't bother answering back at him would be a dark one indeed. It meant she still cared. And there was no telling when she'd decide to stop.

"Somehow, I think they'll let it pass," he said wryly. "What's your excuse for staying out past your curfew? Run out of marshmallows and had to make an emergency trip to the shops?"

"I _never_ run out of marshmallows," Purdey said matter-of-factly, as if this was the natural state of the world. "I went home for lunch, and got caught behind a painfully slow driver, that's all. You?"

Gambit couldn't help the sly little smile that sprang to his lips unbidden. "I had a lunch date."

"Oh?" One of Purdey's perfectly tended eyebrows arched in an expression of carefully cultivated disinterest—too carefully cultivated, Gambit noted with satisfaction, and, though he wouldn't admit it to himself just now, a touch of relief. "I'd ask if it was with a girl, but you wouldn't be looking like that if it wasn't."

"Like what?"

"Like the cat that got the proverbial cream." Purdey glanced at her watch, compared it to the clock on the wall, and pursed her lips when she found that Gambit's intel was, indeed, confirmed. "Well, in that case, I'm surprised you came back at all." Her voice was heavy with innuendo.

Gambit pulled a face. "What, at one in the afternoon? Purdey, what sort of girls do you think I have lunch with?"

"I wouldn't know," Purdey said serenely, expression conveying just the right amount of disinterest.

"Why? The typing pool's gossip line failing you?"

"No." She said it just a touch too quickly, and Gambit's grin widened enough that she looked annoyed.

"Honestly, Gambit, I don't lie awake at night wondering what you do on your lunch hour. You have it with me half the time, anyway."

"There you go, then."

Purdey frowned in bemusement. "What?"

"You know what kind of girl I take to lunch." Purdey hated it when he got logical. It went against her preferred mode of conversation. "So if there's anything you'd like to tell me about what you think we should be getting up to at one in the afternoon..."

Purdey rolled her eyes expansively as security checked the pass clipped to her plain navy wool sheath dress. "You're getting too clever for your own good, Mike Gambit."

"Thanks. I was worried I was slipping."

Purdey didn't wait for him to have his pass checked. She started off down the corridor and forced him to catch her up. He did, of course. She allowed herself a small smile. She'd evened things up, and now she was ready to take the lead once more. "If you're back so early, perhaps you _are_ slipping. I don't know what you were doing at lunch today, Mike Gambit, and I'm not entirely certain I want to, but I'll save you a trip to the typing pool and let you know that yesterday _I _was having lunch here, with Steed. Not all of us are interested in being grist for the rumour mill, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Gambit murmured in reply, slowing his pace so he fell back behind her. "I really do."

Purdey turned, surprised to suddenly find herself striding down the corridor solo, and shot him an inquiring look. "Gambit?"

He flashed her a half-hearted smile. "We're already late. Better get back to work, eh? See you later, Purdey." He was off down one of the branch corridors before she could say another word.

Purdey frowned, then shrugged, resuming her original course. "I don't know who you had lunch with, Mike Gambit," she muttered to herself, "but whoever it is, she's made you act awfully strange."

Later that day, Purdey found Gambit at the impersonal, semi-isolated little desk that he utilised for in-office paperwork. It was the absolute last place she expected to find him, which was fitting as it was the last place she had bothered to look. Gambit hated paperwork almost as much as he hated his regular physical, and he was more likely to do it when he had company, in the form of Steed and Purdey, to make things bearable, and so they often gathered together to tie things up either at the stud farm, or, if there was no way of getting around it, in Steed's Ministry office, which saw almost as little action as Gambit's desk. He couldn't indulge in a drink or play music here to make things bearable, and that explained why the desktop was almost bare, filled, rather pathetically, with a standard-issue typewriter, and cup filled with pencils and pens. This meant that Purdey was able to easily hike herself up and deposit her posterior on surface without disturbing so much as a fine layer of dust. Gambit's eyes flicked from the paper in the typewriter, to her, in a silent query.

"Steed suggested we go for a drink after we finish," she informed brightly, legs swinging cheerfully. "Coming?"

Gambit leaned back in his cheap office chair, which squeaked in protest at the sudden movement, eyes fixed on the typewriter, and let out a dramatic sigh. "Sorry, Purdey-girl. I haven't finished some of the paperwork from one of our old assignments, and if I don't have it wrapped up by the end of the month, McKay'll have my head."

Purdey frowned. "Paperwork?" she repeated incredulously. They usually finished it together, and she couldn't recall a case in the past month or so where Gambit had played truant while Steed and herself had forged ahead. True, Gambit had been doing the odd solo foray of late, but nothing so taxing that it should put him so far behind in his administrative duties, and anyway, he'd said it was for one of their old assignments, hadn't he? "Which assignment?" she pressed, watching his face carefully, though she had to admit she didn't know what she was looking for.

"Just one of those times you put it off," Gambit said easily, neatly skirting around the question, "and the longer you put it off, the more you want to put it off, until someone takes that option away." Gambit stretched with carefully-calculated ease. "And McKay took it away. So I'll have to spurn you for once, Purdey-girl."

Purdey felt her frown deepen. Mike Gambit turning down a drink to stay at the office? He was dedicated to the job, but there were limits, and anyway, there was something else going on here, something she couldn't quite fathom, something about his demeanour that rubbed her the wrong way. He wouldn't look at her, for one, or at least, not for very long, and when he did, it was out of the corner of his eye, as though he couldn't stand to have her anywhere but in the periphery of his vision.

"We could stay on," she suggested, "until you've finished."

"What, so you can share in the misery? No, it's going to be a long haul, not just an hour or two, and I'm not going to be good for much of anything after the fact. No, you and Steed should go, get out and remind yourselves that there's life outside the file rooms and the bad coffee in the break room."

Purdey was really suspicious now. Gambit sending her out for drinks with Steed? Even though there wasn't anything serious happening between them, Gambit usually liked to get his oar in where Purdey was involved if at all possible, and she had to admit she hadn't minded having it in there, either. This suddenly disinterested, almost blasé, attitude was very wrong indeed. Her mind flicked through the options. Perhaps he had another date with the girl from lunch, and he simply didn't want her to know about it. But that didn't make sense—he'd never been shy about telling her about planned evenings with girls before, hadn't felt a need to lie. He certainly hadn't felt the need to keep her secret earlier in the day. Unless she was something special, and his interest in Purdey herself had waned as a result. Purdey felt herself bristle at the prospect. That had never happened before, either, but the investigator in her wouldn't let her rule that option out. She decided to try a little experiment.

"We could have the drink here," she proposed, leaning back on her hands so she could cross one long leg over the other. The action caused her practical woollen skirt to ride an inch or so up one creamy thigh. "Steed probably has something good stashed somewhere," she went on, keeping a close watch on Gambit's line of sight. Much to her satisfaction, Gambit's eyes flicked, however briefly, toward her hemline before meeting her own. Purdey allowed herself a slight smile, and Gambit returned it. She'd seen it, and he knew that she'd seen it. Definitely still interested then. It had to be something else.

"Even money there's at least one bottle hidden on every floor, and two in his office," he agreed. "But it still wouldn't be fun, you two getting sloshed, watching me bash away at this. That'll kill our social lives faster than a bullet to the head. I can't let you sacrifice yourself on my account." The smile made a return appearance. "But thanks for the offer."

Purdey sighed, partly from annoyance, partly in defeat. Whatever was going on, she wasn't going to find out tonight. "All right, if you're bound and determined to be masochistic tonight, I won't stand in your way." She slid off the desk, heels making contact with the floor with a resounding 'clack.' "Good night, Gambit. Try not to work too hard."

"You never need to worry about that," Gambit quipped, turning to watch her go. "Night, Purdey."

Gambit waited at the desk for a full quarter of an hour, just in case Purdey or, even worse, Steed came to check on him, or worse, tried to poke some more holes in his story. He knew his alibi hadn't fooled Purdey, not completely—she knew something was wrong, and he knew he should be flattered she could read him well enough to know it, and cared enough to push the issue. But she'd let it go for now, and that was all he needed. He supposed he could have told her he had a date instead—that would have made her much less suspicious, and made her want to leave of her own volition. Purdey never liked to hang about and hear him talk about his dates if she could help it. But that wouldn't explain why he was staying late at the Ministry, should someone happen to mention that fact to one of his two colleagues, and that wasn't a risk he was willing to take. Eventually, when he was certain no one was going to check up on him, he stole down to the file room.

There were several file rooms in the Ministry building, each with its own particular specialty, and Gambit knew his way around all of them. When he was a trainee agent, he'd spent hours in the different repositories, reading up on old cases and dossiers. There was often time to kill between classes, and there were only so many hours one could spend at the target range. The stories contained within the dust-covered dossiers were better than any paperback, and were a good way of keeping one's mind off the fact that one should really be going to one's medical. Some of the keepers of these strongholds were less-than-welcoming to the casual reader, however, and Gambit had learned to steer clear of them as much possible, making friends with the men who chose to perceive his interest as an appreciation of their work. Finder, thankfully, fell into this latter category, and it was his room that was Gambit's destination.

The older man was seated at his desk, poring over some paperwork, when Gambit entered. He looked up in surprise, offered a cheery smile. "Hello, Gambit," he greeted. "Working late?"

"Something like that," Gambit agreed vaguely, hoping Finder wasn't in a talkative mood, and praying he wouldn't ask what Gambit was researching.

"Need any help?" Finder offered.

"No, I think I know where I'm going. Thanks."

Finder nodded and went back to his paperwork, much to Gambit's relief. Gambit really didn't need his help, thankfully—it would have made for awkward questions. He made his way quickly to the place where he knew the file he needed would be, located it on its usual shelf, and slid it out with practised ease. He'd been through Emma Knight's file many times before, just as he had all of Steed's partners, and the man himself. Although Gambit admitted to himself that Emma's file had probably seen a touch more use than the rest. He moved to one of the tables hidden among the shelves and opened it on a tabletop. If he was going to find Peter Peel, he needed somewhere to start, and Emma was as good a place as any. If there were files on Peter, there should be some reference to them in her own dossier, a location where he could track them down. It was a bit like a treasure hunt, following research threads to their logical conclusion. Fortunately for Gambit, his file-reading hobby had made him very good at reading the map.

Gambit was about to pull out a chair to start his perusal in earnest, when a flash of headlamps through the file room's window caught his eye. He moved to look out onto the Ministry's exit gate below, just in time to see Steed's Jaguar, followed closely by Purdey's cheery yellow TR7, make their way out of the Ministry's underground car park, and out onto the road. Gambit watched them go, feeling vaguely guilty for lying to them. In an odd sort of way, it was though he was cheating on them with Emma. But then, they'd probably have a fine time without him. They'd been doing a good job of it so far.

Gambit felt his mouth twist, and he turned away from the window before his imagination ran away from him completely. He had work to do.


	3. Dead Ends

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

Author's Note: Life got away from me again, making updating difficult, but this chapter is longer than the last two, so hopefully that'll make up for it!

* * *

Purdey turned up at the Ministry early the next day. Gambit's odd behaviour had haunted her all through her drink with Steed, and well into the night as she tossed fitfully in her bed, and desperately tried to sleep. She couldn't help but think something was wrong, even though there were a hundred perfectly innocent explanations to explain why Gambit was acting strangely. If he was acting strangely. But no, she could feel it. Her finely-honed sixth sense, developed in the field, was particularly keen when it came to her partners. She could read them like the proverbial book, and she knew when something was out-of-kilter. Unfortunately, unlike a book, she couldn't skip over the tiresome filler in the middle, and straight to the exact cause of Gambit's unease. That would take more work, and she meant to make a start on it today, just as soon as Gambit came in.

As Purdey strode down the sterile departmental corridors, lost in thought, she rounded a corner that took her past the Ministry's computer lab. Much to her surprise, she caught a glimpse of a familiar head and shoulders through the doorway as she passed by. Gambit. She executed a quick about-face, and peered carefully around the doorframe. He was seated at one of the workstations, consulting something on his monitor. It looked like he was working. Purdey glanced at her watch. At this hour? It was surprising enough to find Gambit in this early, well-before he was expected, but for him to be working as well, at a time when they had no assignments—well, it was unheard of. Something was clearly going on, and she meant to find out what it was.

Somehow, she didn't think going up to Gambit and asking him just what he thought he was doing would prove fruitful. So instead of making her presence known, she watched him instead, trying to ignore the little voice in her head that was intent on listing the moral and ethical quandaries that accompanied a spy's choice to switch her attentions from the enemy to her own people, particularly her own partner. She silenced it by telling herself she was doing it for his own good, but even she found that explanation wanting. She shook her head to clear it, and forced herself to focus on watching Gambit.

Gambit, thankfully, was too engrossed in what he was doing to notice her lurking in the doorway. After a moment, he hit a few keys on the keyboard, and the screen flickered in response. Purdey was too far away to read what it said, but whatever it was, Gambit shifted from his current position of repose, to sitting upright and alert. He pulled a pen and paper from his pocket, copied something down with great care, and then hit a few more keys. The screen flickered once more, but Gambit was already on his feet, stowing the pen and paper in his jacket and turning toward the door. Purdey acted quickly, darting out of doorway, and ducking behind the corner of the corridor, praying that Gambit wouldn't follow. Luckily for her, she heard his footsteps retreat in the opposite direction. Once they had sufficiently receded, she hazarded a glance around the corner to check on his progress. There was a lift at the end of the corridor, and Gambit pressed the call button, then rocked impatiently on his heels while he waited for it to arrive. When it did, he stepped inside, and Purdey went back into hiding before he caught sight of her at the other end of the corridor. It was only when she heard the lift doors slide close, and the hum and whir of the mechanism as the lift spirited her colleague off to another floor, that she abandoned her cover, and moved down the corridor to track his progress. The indicator informed her that the lift was headed down. Far down. Very far down. As far down as anyone in the Ministry could go without taking on a side job as a coal miner. Purdey watched the lift indicator come to a stop in the Ministry's basement with pursed lips. There were several departments confined to the bowels of the Ministry, but there was no doubt in her mind as to which one was Mike's destination. She also knew he was going to be there for some time, which meant she had a chance to do some checking up. She quickly returned to the computer lab, located the in-house telephone mounted on the wall, and lifted the receiver. "Hello," she said in response to the operator's inquiry. "I'd like to request a technician, please."

VVVVVV

The technician, or 'boffin' as most of the Ministry's employees referred to them, perhaps rather uncharitably, was an affable young man of about 25, blond, with the seemingly standard-issue thick-rimmed glasses that announced his status to the world. His name Merton, and he was almost too happy to help.

"Had a bit of trouble, have you, miss?" he inquired, as Purdey led him to the monitor so recently occupied by Gambit.

"In a way," Purdey conceded. She'd carefully constructed her story while she waited for the technician, praying all the while that he wouldn't turn out to be some sort of stickler who cross-checked everything before he made a move. "You see, my partner was doing some research for an assignment earlier today, and he took the printout with him when he went to follow a lead. Somehow he managed to spill coffee all over it." She shared Merton's sympathetic laugh, and dared to hope that he was buying all this. "Anyway, now he can't remember what was on it, and he's called me asking if I can backtrack through the system and find his research trail. But I'm afraid I don't know how."

"Ah." Merton nodded sympathetically. "Not many people do. They don't cover it in basic training for your lot, you see, even though I've been telling them they should. Lost research trails are only going to come up more and more often as we move to electronic databases, and it's going to be a massive waste of time if we have to come up and retrieve them every time someone hits 'delete' by accident." He seemed to realise who he was talking to, and added quickly, "Not that you did that in this case, miss. It's really not your fault, and I don't mind helping you at all."

Purdey smiled sweetly to allay his fears. "I'm very grateful," she told him, and was amused to see a blush creep over the young man's cheeks.

"Ahem," he began, clearing his throat. "I'll have a look, then, shall I?" He started typing, quickly, fingers dancing over keys as screens appeared, and disappeared just as quickly. Purdey had to admit she was impressed—she wasn't bad with the machines, but she wasn't an expert, and certainly wasn't up to this man's level. Even Gambit was better at it than she was—he actually liked the things, and had spent more time with them than was strictly necessary. Purdey could understand their usefulness as a tool, but she had no particular desire to muck with them in her leisure time, and Steed had no use for them at all. He was more than happy to leave that sort of work to Gambit and Purdey whenever possible.

"Just about there," Merton was saying, and Purdey snapped out of the reverie she'd been lulled into by the rhythmically flashing screens. Eventually, one, final screen popped up, the prime feature of which appeared to be a table without any data in it. Purdey frowned at the image.

"Is that it?" she wanted to know, looking to Merton, but his frown was mirroring hers.

"No," he murmured softly, then felt her eyes on him and turned his head to explain. "Well, I mean, yes, it is, but there's no data concerning past research trails."

Purdey felt a hard knot form in her stomach. "Do you know why?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice level

"Well, I can't be certain," Merton began, fiddling nervously with his glasses. "But it seems—I mean, it looks—as though your partner, or someone else who used this machine after him, wiped the trails."

"Is that difficult to do?" Purdey inquired.

"Not if you know your way around the system," Merton admitted, regarding Purdey with a newfound unease. "Is your partner good with computers?"

"Yes," Purdey replied distantly, unable to keep the worry out of her voice.

Merton seemed to sense that she wasn't pleased with this development, and tried to put her at ease. "Well, we don't know for sure it was him—could be anyone who used the lab. And even if it was, agents do it all the time. You know, to keep things under wraps. You're a suspicious lot, aren't you?" He laughed nervously, but Purdey didn't join in this time. She knew that no one else had used the machine after Gambit—she'd made sure of it, waiting by it until Merton returned. That meant Gambit had wiped it, most likely to cover his tracks. And at the moment, she couldn't think of a single good reason for him to do so. The illegitimate reasons, however, were now presenting themselves to her with haunting clarity.

"Yes," she confirmed, in belated acknowledgement of Merton's comment. "We're very suspicious. And sometimes I wish we weren't."

VVV

Purdey hated visiting Button-Lip. The department was located in the bowels of the Ministry, and was assigned the not-insignificant task of protecting all of her employer's most important secrets. Trips to the department were not common, but almost always essential. Their work had brought Purdey here a handful of times in the year or so since she'd achieved agent status. Every time she'd brought Gambit, or, rather, Gambit had brought her. Gambit had spent much more time there than she had, in his seemingly never-ending quest to plumb the depths of every file room the Ministry had to offer, in search of lost secrets and a good read. His adventures had led him to strike up friendly relations with Button-Lip's department head, the coolly-efficient Cynthia Wentworth-Howe. A dedicated worker who had single-mindedly climbed the rungs of the intelligence services in pursuit of her goal, Cynthia now occupied her ideal position as gatekeeper of the Most Secret files the service had to offer. To most, she was a foreboding figure, standing tall and unyielding, striking down any unwary agent who chose to come her way without proper clearance. Those that had done their homework received professional, if chilly courtesy. John Steed had famously cracked her resolve a decade ago with an anecdote about a salmon in Bond Street. Since then, only one other man had managed to get something approaching a warm smile out of her, and that man was Mike Gambit.

Purdey didn't know how he'd managed it, but Cynthia was never anywhere near as formidable when Gambit was around. Files that she would normally be loathe to even admit existed were not only opened, but handed over without hesitation. Granted, Gambit had a way with women, but Cynthia wasn't an ordinary woman, and ordinary charms didn't work on her. Purdey suspected it was down to a strange blend of professional respect and physical attraction—one-sided, or so she liked to think. She definitely didn't like thinking about whether or not it went both ways, or whether Gambit had gained personal access to Ms. Wentworth-Howe's legendary garter keyring...

Purdey stepped out of the lift at the bottom floor of the Ministry, strode down the grey, cavernous, forbidding corridor, and paused outside an unmarked door. She always needed to brace herself before she entered Button-Lip's inner sanctum, and with good reason. It was rather like walking onstage to perform for the most critical audience known to man. Her dancing days pale in comparison.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned the doorhandle, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. She may as well have been entering another dimension.

The sheer size of the place was always the first thing that put her off. After the narrow, unspectacular corridor, the mind just wasn't primed for the high-vaulted ceilings and vast sprawl of the room. It stretched out in all directions, clean and crisp and white. There were two neat columns of desks up the middle, each desk occupied by one of Button-Lip's file clerks, heads bowed as they got on with their no-doubt important tasks of encrypting secrets, or whatever it was they did all day. To either side of them were the filing cabinets, row upon row of them, all grey, all arranged facing inwards, towards the desks. They eventually gave way to row upon row of shelves, which tapered off into the peripheries of the room, eventually disappearing into a strange horizon. It was as though the whole room was designed to throw one's sense of space and perception off-balance. That was the first thing Purdey hated about it. The second thing was yet to come.

Purdey took a step forward. The impact of her high heel on the tiles instantly rang out, deafeningly loud. In unison, the heads of the clerks snapped up, dozens of pairs of eyes fixing on her with efficient precision. Purdey took another step, willed herself to fall into a natural walking rhythm. She didn't get flustered easily, but there was something about the clerks, whose eyes managed to follow her without ever turning their heads. Those eyes, so used to perusing secrets on a daily basis, seemed to have acquired an almost-supernatural ability to glean one's own secrets, seemed to look straight through into the brain and the heart, and see them all, printed out in block letters, just waiting to be pulled out, examined, and then filed away, only to be extracted when necessary. Those eyes seemed to know everything, and Purdey hated them. She suppressed a shiver. Usually she'd have Gambit with her, striding on ahead, and she could use him as a shield, following in his footsteps, as though his form could act as interference against the laser gaze. Gambit never seemed to worry about those eyes would uncovering his own secrets. She knew he had some. Then again, perhaps he was too old a hand at keeping them. That was why she was here, wasn't it? Because Gambit had a secret, and as a result, for the first time in more than a year, Purdey didn't have a shield.

Making her way as quickly as possible past the clerks, Purdey hurried over to the one, solitary desk set apart from the others, where a blonde woman was poring over some papers. Unlike her clerks, she hadn't looked up upon Purdey's arrival, and she was stubbornly refusing to do so even as Purdey came to a stop just inches from the edge of her desk. Purdey pursed her lips in annoyance. Cynthia always did this to her. If Gambit was with her, she'd be on her feet by now.

"Ms. Wentworth-Howe?" Purdey inquired, and her voice rang out in the room, earning her another simultaneous head-snap from the clerks.

Cynthia glanced up at her over the tops of her half-moon reading glasses. "This is Button-Lip, Purdey," she reminded, like an overly-strict librarian. "We speak softly here, if we must at all."

Purdey fought the urge to pull a face, forcing an apologetic smile onto her lips instead. "Sorry," she apologised, in a much quieter tone.

Cynthia nodded, once, as though approving Purdey's choice of decibel. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Gambit," Purdey told her. There was no point in beating about the bush with Cynthia, and anyway, Purdey wanted out of here as quickly as possible. She could feel the clerks' eyes on her back. "Has he been here?"

"What makes you think he's been here of all places?" Cynthia wanted to know, and Purdey just barely managed to refrain from grinding her teeth.

"Because I saw him take a lift to this floor," she explained patiently. "And the only place down here Gambit's even remotely interested in is Button-Lip."

Cynthia inclined her head, as though receiving a compliment. "Well, as flattering as it is that Mr. Gambit thinks so highly of our department, I'm afraid I can't help you."

Purdey arched a sceptical eyebrow. "So he hasn't been here?"

Cynthia was unfazed. "As I said, I can't help you."

Purdey could tell when she was being given the runaround, even by someone as inscrutable as Cynthia Wentworth-Howe. "Is he here now?" she asked pointedly, never breaking eye-contact for a moment.

"Without wishing to appear rude, Purdey," Cynthia began, finally removing her eyeglasses and meeting her gaze head-on, "I must remind you that Button-Lip is a very busy department with an absolutely crucial remit in the intelligence services. There are secrets which must be processed, protected, and be safely kept under lock and key. Locating mislaid agents is not part of that remit. If you've somehow managed to misplace your partner, I'm afraid we're not the people to ask."

Purdey held the gaze a moment longer, then straightened up with a sigh. Whether Cynthia was intentionally avoiding answering her questions, or simply being difficult for the sake of it, she wasn't going to help her. There was no point in pressing her further. Cynthia was powerful, more powerful than she looked, and the last thing Purdey needed was her fellow blonde placing a call to McKay, who would want to know just why Purdey was making unexplained trips to Button-Lip when she wasn't even on an assignment.

"All right, I won't take up any more of your time," she sighed, keeping the hostility out of her voice. "But if you happen to see Gambit, you will tell him I'm looking for him?"

"Of course," Cynthia agreed. "So sorry we couldn't be of more assistance. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," Purdey said crisply, and endured the walk of the thousand eyes for the second time in almost as many minutes. It was only when the door was safely shut behind her that another, almost-invisible one opened, blending seamlessly into the white wall that housed it. Mike Gambit stepped out and closed it carefully behind him. He moved to where Cynthia still sat, pondering the door so recently shut by Purdey. The clerks turned back to their work. They knew which secrets were never meant for their eyes.

"Thanks, Cynthia," Gambit murmured in gratitude to the blonde.

"I won't lie for you, Gambit," Cynthia reminded tersely, fidgeting idly with her glasses, before twisting round to fix him with her penetrating gaze. "I didn't just now. I avoided the issue. But I won't outright lie to someone who is more persistent than Purdey. Not even if it is Purdey. I have a job here, and I won't compromise it, or lose it, on your account."

"I'd never ask you to," Gambit assured, knowing full well that she meant it—she was too dedicated to hold out for his sake. Her hard-won fondness for him only stretched so far, and he didn't particularly want to test it. This favour was his choice to grant, and his alone—he didn't want to drag anyone else into it if he could help it. He looked down at the papers he held in his hands. "I, uh, made a copy of that report when I was in there." He nodded at the invisible door from which he'd just emerged. "Redacted, of course. I don't think there's anything too inflammatory left." He handed the papers to Cynthia for her inspection. She replaced the reading glasses and gave them what would appear, to the casual observer, to be a cursory once-over, but was, in reality, an expert eye trained to pick out top secret information.

"Yes, that's fine," she confirmed, handing back the pages, which Gambit folded and tucked away in his breast pocket. "Don't flash them around, though, will you? I don't want anyone coming to the erroneous conclusion that I make a habit of this sort of thing."

"Don't worry. The only person who'll be looking at them signed the Official Secrets Act years ago."

"Yes, I know," Cynthia said crisply. "Why do you think I'm letting you take them?"

Gambit smiled wryly. Trust Cynthia to be two steps ahead when it came to other people's secrets, although his search criteria hadn't exactly left much to the imagination regarding the identity of his mysterious associate. "You seem tense, Cynthia. I should take you out for dinner when I'm finished, give you a chance to relax."

"You can take me fishing," Cynthia countered, shuffling some of the papers on her desk. "This Saturday. There's a lovely little stream that's said to be promising, but it's off-road. Your Range Rover should manage it much better than my little city car." Gambit pulled a face at the idea of freshly-caught fish smelling up the interior of his Rover, but Cynthia was unfazed. "You can pick me up at seven in the morning. Bring your own waders."

"All the other girls supplied them," Gambit quipped, but there was a sigh in his voice. He nodded at Cynthia, who looked quite insufferably pleased with herself. "See you at seven." He trudged toward the exit, and swore he could hear the clerks chuckling in his wake.

Gambit eased the door open, and peered cautiously out into the corridor, just in case Purdey was still out there, trying to catch him on the way out. She was, though not so much lying in wait as waiting for the lift. It could be temperamental at times, especially where the basement was concerned, and could take absolute ages to pick up its human cargo. From Purdey's impatiently-tapping foot, she'd been waiting for some time.

Gambit stood there, just watching her, arms crossed, gorgeous figure draped in something light blue and sleeveless. It would bring out her eyes, he knew—he hadn't been able to see her from his hiding place, just hear her voice, and now he had a picture with no vocals. They blended together in mind, the voice anxious, annoyed, frustrated, strident, officious, and a dozen other things he picked out unconsciously by way of months of familiarity; the body betraying her mood with a head bent in thought, a slightly jutted-out left hip, and he knew from experience that she'd have her right thumbnail pressed to her lips, a habit that asserted itself whenever she was trying to work out a problem out. He knew there were a hundred different things zipping around that fabulous brain at warp speed, trying to work out just what was going on. He knew she was annoyed with him, worried, probably very, very bemused, and suspicious. She knew he was hiding something, and if he wasn't careful, she was going to find out before he had a chance to wrap this up, or worse, she might share her concerns with someone else. Right now she didn't have enough to go on to do much more than worry and try to keep tabs on him. He was going to have to tread carefully if she wasn't going to start digging up something more concrete. And that meant he was going to have to get better at lying to her.

Gambit hated lying to Purdey, particularly when it mattered, and she hated him when he did it. Occasionally it was necessarily—the doppelganger assignment had been one such case. But it always stuck in his craw, and he always had to endure Purdey's look of mild betrayed as penance. He wasn't sure what kind of look she'd give him if she worked out what he was doing, but he didn't want to see it. Or hear the words that accompanied it. He suddenly felt very, very guilty for misleading the figure, standing alone at the end of the corridor, whom he was quite obviously causing distress. _Sorry, Purdey-girl_, he apologised mentally. _But I promised to do someone a favour._ He ducked back inside Button-Lip before she had a chance to see him.

Purdey, as though sensing his eyes on her back, whirled round suddenly, scanning the corridor for any sign of life. But there was no one. Purdey pursed her lips in annoyance, wished she'd managed more than meeting a dead-end in the form of Cynthia. The lift dinged cheerfully, announcing its arrival. Purdey stepped into it reluctantly, knowing that there were answers down here, just outside her reach. She'd been stymied this time. She'd have to try a different strategy. She pushed a button and the lift doors slid closed.

Back in Button-Lip, Gambit returned to Cynthia, smiled a bit sheepishly. "Is there, uh, another way out? Purdey's taking a long time at the other end."

Cynthia's smile was conspiratorial. "This is Button-Lip, Mr. Gambit. We'd look very silly without at least one secret exit, wouldn't we?"


	4. Confrontation

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

Author's Note: Ugh, I wanted to update this a few days back, but I've had so much going on. Still, better late than never, right?

* * *

Later that day, Mike Gambit pulled the XJS up outside an unmarked building with a very glossy, painted red door. He alighted from the car, and made quick work of the short flight of stairs leading up to the gleaming aperture, before bestowing a knock on its shiny surface. After a beat, the door eased open, and a very officious-looking doorman was revealed. He looked Gambit up and down with a touch of disdain, despite Mike's well-cut pinstripe suit. "Can I help you, sir?" he inquired, expression clearly indicating that he hoped he couldn't.

Gambit wasn't in the mood to be condescended at. "Mike Gambit," he said in short, clipped tones. "I'm expected," he added, with grim satisfaction.

The doorman's expression flickered ever-so-slightly, betraying his disappointment. He had clearly been given Gambit's name. He pulled himself together and managed to step back to allow Gambit entry. "This way, sir."

The interior of the building was as understated as its exterior, and just as classically outfitted. The doorman led Gambit up an elegantly-turned-out staircase, down a plushly-carpeted hallway, and through a door which he opened with great care. It was only when Gambit followed him in that he saw the reason why—the room was high-ceilinged, expansive, and outfitted with a perfectly-sprung wooden floor, upon which a pair of fencers were engaged in a bout of intense duelling while an assembled crowd, many of whom were also garbed in the swordsman's white, looked on. The doorman indicated the duellers with a subtle hand gesture designed not to distract either opponent. "Your appointment, sir," he informed, but Gambit was miles ahead of him. He knew the figure, and no face mask could conceal that mane of rich auburn hair.

"Thanks," he told the doorman, smiling in way meant to convey, 'Now you can bugger off.' To his credit, the man did, and Gambit took up a post leaning against the wall to wait for things to come to their natural conclusion.

He didn't have to wait long. Moments later, one of the opponents gained the upper-hand, easily taking advantage of a weakness in the other's defence, and scoring a palpable hit. A buzzer went off somewhere, registering the victory. The crowd clapped appreciatively, Gambit included, as the two warriors saluted one another smartly. It was only then that the one with her back to him turned around and made her way off the floor. She started toward him, pulling off the mask and letting the auburn hair cascade around her face. She was smiling brightly. It was a nice smile to have aimed his way.

"Mike!" she greeted, and Gambit noticed a half-dozen of the spectators crane their necks to see who it was she was talking to. One thing was certain—being seen in public with Emma Knight got one noticed.

"Hello, Emma," he replied, and wondered just what role most people assumed he played in Emma's life. He wasn't sure how wrong he wanted them to get it.

"I'm sorry I wasn't downstairs to meet you," she apologised, but Gambit waved it off. "It took slightly longer than I estimated to defeat Henry. He's improving."

"Not enough, apparently," Gambit opined, glancing at Henry, her erstwhile opponent. He had his mask off, too, and was sulking. He must have thought he had a chance against her, poor deluded fool.

"Now, Mike, that's not very sporting," Emma gently chastised, but the lopsided smile was in evidence.

"Maybe. Doesn't mean I don't regret not having money on you," Gambit quipped, returning the smile before getting reluctantly down to business. "Listen, is there someplace we can talk?"

Emma nodded. "There's a lounge just down the hall. No one's there this time of day. We can find a corner and have a drink."

They did just that, Emma still in her fencing whites, though she opted to leave the foil in the sparring room, where the next bout was in full swing. "Have you ever tried fencing?" she inquired of Gambit, sipping her brandy as they settled into a pair of cosy armchairs.

"Once or twice," Gambit said truthfully.

Emma arched a questioning eyebrow. "And?"

Gambit shrugged. "Not bad. Never drew me in the way karate or archery did, and it's not as useful in the field. Besides, I can't holster a sword under my arm."

Emma grinned at the mental image. "You wouldn't have to train for work," she pointed out. "You could do it for pleasure."

"I have a day job, you know. Only so much time for practice."

"Mmm, well, I think you ought to try it again. It does wonders for the reflexes."

"Maybe I will. Know any good teachers?" Gambit's eyes were gleaming.

Emma looked heavenward and considered. "One or two."

"Any of them willing to fit me in at short notice?"

"Possibly." Emma sipped her brandy. "But I should remind you, Gambit, that I, as you put it, have a day job as well."

"Then it'll be a good exercise in time management." Gambit drank a little of his Scotch and resisted the urge to wink.

"We'll see," Emma said pertly, but her eyes were dancing. "But I think we ought to discuss what you found first, don't you?"

"Mmm." Gambit swallowed the Scotch and reached into his breast pocket, extracted the pages he'd taken from Button-Lip, and handed them to Emma. "Remember, you didn't get these from me."

"I've never seen them," Emma agreed, taking the thin sheath and unfolding it. She skimmed the contents, eyes widening as she went. Gambit settled back, one hand casually draped over the arm of his chair, anticipating her reaction. When she finished, and looked up to meet his eyes, he was ready for her.

"I assume no one bothered to tell you Peter had been hired by a company with ties to MI6?" Gambit said flatly, gauging Emma's reaction easily.

"Communication is something that tends to taper off following a divorce," Emma replied, mouth tugging down at the corners in thought.

Gambit sipped his Scotch. "I wouldn't know."

"I think you do," Emma contradicted. "You must have ended your share of relationships over the years. And don't say you always leave them laughing, or I'll accuse you of plagiarism."

"Well, I try," Gambit allowed, with just a touch of smugness. "But good-bye doesn't necessarily mean forever. I'm open to reunions."

"I'll remember that," Emma said wryly, eyes regaining a hint of their previous sparkle. "So, Peter's taken on work with an MI6 affiliate. Do you think that has something to do with wherever he is?"

"I'd say there's a good chance," Gambit hazarded. "Peter was only hired on three months ago, and there'd be some lag time while they got him settled in. Maybe he's started earning his keep."

"It's possible," Emma sighed, picking up the papers and skimming them once more. "I'll make some inquiries tomorrow. I don't know how receptive they'll be. We didn't cross paths often when I was with Steed."

Gambit shook his head. "Don't bother. I rang them before I came here. I have a contact or two in MI6. They put me in touch with somebody who might be able to help. She wasn't in, so I had to leave a message, but odds are she'll get back to me in the morning."

The space between Emma's eyebrows creased into a furrow. "Mike, I didn't ask for you to go quite that far."

"You wanted me to use my contacts, didn't you?" Gambit said unconcernedly.

"Yes, but I meant your Ministry contacts." Emma's frown was annoyed. "This goes beyond your department. Someone's going to notice you if you keep this up, and I can't ask you to put your career on the line."

"Emma, you know as well as I do that when you asked for my help, it was going to put my job on the line," Gambit shot back, leaning in close. "That was why you offered me an out. But I wouldn't have agreed if I thought it was going to come to that, and I wouldn't take the risk if I didn't want to. You asked me to find Peter, and I'm going to find him."

Emma crossed her arms and leaned back against her chair, looking sceptical. "And you don't think you're going to get caught?"

"By MI6? No. I don't plan on digging around long enough to attract attention."

"And what about the Ministry?" Emma pressed. "Somebody there is going to suspect something eventually. Particularly Steed and Purdey." She saw Gambit's eyes flick downwards ever-so-slightly, and felt her lips purse. "What aren't you telling me? Do Steed and Purdey suspect?"

Gambit took another pull of his Scotch, then swirled the liquid around in the glass reflectively. "I haven't seen much of Steed lately," he began, feigning casualness. "We don't have an assignment right now, so he tries to avoid his office, and I try to avoid him." He saw Emma's mouth quirk up on one side when he mentioned Steed's desk-dodging tendencies. She seemed pleased about it. "If I keep it up, he won't ever see enough of me to make him suspicious. And even if he does think something's up, he won't do anything about it unless I really look as though I'm about to turn traitor."

Emma's eyebrow canted upwards inquiringly. "And Purdey?"

Gambit let out a long breath. "Purdey knows I'm up to something," he admitted. "She tried to follow me down to Button-Lip today, though she didn't manage to catch me. But she can tell I lied to her, and her antenna's up. She'll be the hardest to keep in the dark. But she doesn't have anything solid to go on, and she wouldn't turn me in unless she thought I was doing something horrible. Maybe not even then." He gave Emma a grim smile. "If she finds anything, she'll confront me with me it, probably ream me out for it. But she wouldn't believe I've turned anymore than she would Steed."

Emma massaged her right temple tiredly, defeated. "If you're sure..."

"I am," Gambit confirmed. "Anyway, it's just getting interesting. And once I find something interesting, I don't like to let it go."

"Yes, I've noticed," Emma said airily, finishing her brandy before flashing him a knowing smile. "But I'm afraid I've got to go back and finish my match. Henry made it best 5 of 7."

Gambit toasted an imaginary third person. "To Henry. I never knew him."

Emma simply smiled, gathered up her mask and left. Gambit watched her go with just a touch of melancholy. "Too bad," he murmured to himself. "I get lonely sometimes." He finished his Scotch before taking his pages back.

VVV

When Gambit arrived at the Ministry the next day, Purdey was waiting for him in the building's lobby, arms crossed and gaze steely. Gambit caught her eye as the security man checked his ID, and did his level best to look cheerful and carefree in the face of the unavoidable interrogation and dressing down. Purdey wasn't going to be as easily fobbed off as she had been two days earlier.

His predictions proved true mere moments after he'd passed through security. "Hello, Purdey," he greeted, with probably a touch too much bonhomie. "Couldn't wait for me to get in, eh? You must have missed me more than I thought."

"Yes, I supposed I did in a way," Purdey said dryly. "Especially since you spent most of yesterday avoiding me."

"Avoiding you?" Gambit's expression switched to sceptical, but Purdey was undeterred.

"You can't deny it," she said firmly. "You took the lift down to the basement yesterday, and you paid a visit to Button-Lip."

Gambit's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "Did I?"

Purdey's arms dropped to her sides as her ire increased. "I know you did, even though you had Cynthia there to cover it up. And after that, you went AWOL. Every time I worked out where you'd gone, I'd arrive there only to find you'd left minutes earlier. I didn't see you again for the rest of the day, and you left before I made it down to the car park." Her chin jutted out defiantly, daring him to contradict her. "As I said, you were avoiding me."

"Purdey, that doesn't make sense," Gambit countered. "Think about it logically. You know how much I love seeing you, particularly certain parts of you." His eyes flicked downwards, briefly, to her legs, unusually visible in the shorter skirt she was wearing, a higher hemline than her customary length. "It's one of the few things I like about office days. Why would I avoid you and deprive myself?"

Purdey shook her head in disbelief. "You really are quite impossible, Mike Gambit. More than I imagined. And you must think I'm a complete idiot if you expect me to believe that."

"You know I don't," Gambit cut in, and for the first time since he'd walked in, Purdey felt that he was speaking freely, without guile or deception as his purpose. "But I wasn't avoiding you. Your timing must have been off, that's all."

"My timing?" Purdey repeated, feeling the brief flash of hope his seemingly honest words had ignited within her die again. "If there was anything wrong with my timing, Mike Gambit, you'd have died several dozen assignments ago." She was fuming now, angrier than before, and Gambit knew he was out of ways to defuse her. She wasn't going to muck about any longer. She was going to go in for the kill. "And anyway, you haven't said anything about Button-Lip. I know you were there. Don't deny it."

And there it was. Gambit shrugged casually. "What if I was?"

Purdey wasn't expecting that, and for a brief moment he could see she was taken aback, but she recovered quickly. "Why?" she demanded.

"Why not? There's no regulation against it," Gambit pointed out. "We have clearance. We're allowed to visit."

"But not to do research. Not unless Cynthia clears it for assignment purposes."

"Who said I was there on an assignment?" was Gambit's coy response.

Purdey ground her teeth. "Then why were you there?"

Gambit looked heavenward. "It's not really any of your business," he began.

"Gambit..." Purdey's voice was a warning growl.

"But since you asked so nicely, I was there to visit Cynthia. Satisfied?"

Purdey frowned. "To visit Cynthia?" she repeated, faced scrunched up in disbelief.

"Yes. Look, I know you've never gotten on with her," Gambit went on, "but she's really not as bad as everyone makes out. She has a job with a lot of responsibility attached, and she takes it seriously, but if you can get her to relax, she's good company." He put his hands in his pockets, feeling mildly more at ease. This was true—he did like Cynthia, even though he hadn't visited her solely for her company. "Problem is, she doesn't relax much unless someone pushes her. So I asked if she wanted to do something, and we've made a date to go fishing this Saturday. You can ask her if you want."

Purdey was slowly shaking her head. "Fishing," she repeated, voice betraying her disbelief. "You expect me to believe you went down there to make a date to go fishing? When was the last time you went fishing?"

Gambit let out a long sigh and made a show of doing the mental calculations. "Too long, I guess," he said eventually, with a shrug.

Purdey was incensed. "Mike Gambit..." she began.

"Gambit," another woman's voice called from across the lobby. She was stationed behind a reception desk, a phone receiver held in her outstretched hand. "Call for you."

Gambit cast a sideways glance at Purdey. "Saved by the bell," he murmured, and moved to take it. Purdey followed him, undeterred, to where the receptionist was waiting.

"She said she was following up on the call you made yesterday," the receptionist informed Gambit, who thanked her before taking the receiver and moving pointedly away from where both she and Purdey stood to take the call. Purdey, knowing eavesdropping wasn't going to make Gambit more likely to confide in her, chose to make her frustrations known to the receptionist instead.

"This," she muttered, half to herself, "is a new low."

The receptionist looked up from her work with a bemused expression. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

Purdey nodded at Gambit's turned back. "That call. We all know about Gambit's love life, but this is the first time he's had a member of the Little Black Book Brigade ring him here. Usually even he manages to be a little more discreet than that."

The receptionist shook her head. "Oh, no, it's not a date," she confided. "At least, I don't think so." She glanced at Gambit in a way that was less professional than evaluative, as though she fancied her chances and was hoping she had guessed right. It did nothing for Purdey's mood.

"What do you mean, it's not a date?" she said tersely. "He's talking to a girl, isn't he?"

"Well, yes," the receptionist confirmed, with just a touch of smugness. "But she's from MI6, so I assume it's business."

Purdey straightened up in surprise. "MI6? Are you sure?"

The receptionist nodded. "Completely. It even came through the right line. It has to be MI6." She frowned, sensing Purdey's sudden switch into high alert. "Is there a problem?"

"For Gambit's sake, I hope not," Purdey said sombrely, watching Gambit hang up the phone. He turned to face her, was clearly disappointed that she was still there, and still annoyed. He started walking and she followed. "MI6?" she queried, not bothering to beat about the bush.

Gambit, to his credit, didn't seem surprised she knew. "What about it?"

"Just now. The receptionist said you were talking to a woman from MI6. She also said you rang her yesterday. Care to explain?"

The corners of Gambit's mouth turned upwards in a smile. "You know how it is, Purdey. Lots of departments, all chasing the same things, and elbowing each other out of the way to get them. I was setting up a liaison." He let his eyebrows elaborate on the concept.

"A liaison?" Purdey repeated, not bothering to keep the disdain out of her voice.

Gambit's almost-grin graduated into the real thing. "Just doing my part to keep inter-departmental relations running smoothly."

"And what were you doing with Cynthia?" Purdey asked pointedly. "An intra-departmental liaison?"

"You could say that," Gambit allowed, meeting Purdey's eyes. "You're very curious about what I'm doing, Purdey. Any particular reason, or has the typing pool run out of rumours?"

"I'd worry about rumours starting if I was you, not drying up," Purdey said flatly. "Are you sure there's nothing you'd like to tell me before that happens?"

Gambit shook his head, just once, curtly. "Sorry, Purdey. Nothing comes to mind."

Purdey nodded, ever-so-slightly, accepting it, but not happily. "All right, then I have better things to do than trail after you. I imagine I'll see you again today, but my timing seems to be off, so I can't make promises." She turned on her heel and stalked off, then remembered something and stopped, turned round. "You do remember Steed's having one of his drinks parties this evening, don't you? We promised to come early and help him set up. Are you still coming?"

"Of course." Gambit's gaze was level, but whatever was going on behind the eyes was well-hidden, even from her. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know, Gambit," Purdey admitted, with just a tinge of sadness to her voice. "I honestly don't know." And then she was gone, and Gambit tipped his head back and looked heavenward, just in case the tears he convinced himself weren't there somehow miraculously emerged.

VVV

Purdey hurried off down a corridor that took her away from where she needed to go, but that didn't matter. She just didn't want to take the same one as Gambit. She needed distance and time to think. She'd never known her colleague to be this evasive for no reason. Oh, he was anything but an open book. There were countless topics he was frustratingly vague about. His past, for one. Occasionally he would volunteer a tidbit, maybe spool out an anecdote if he was feeling particularly candid, but the fact was Purdey had known him well over a year, and the details of his 34 years on the planet were more or less a mystery to her. Then again, she hadn't exactly been forthcoming, either, so she supposed she wasn't one to judge.

But the way he was acting now felt so...deceptive. As though he was actively trying to make her believe something else, as opposed to simply withholding information. He was lying to her—that was the long and short of it. She didn't want to admit it, but he was. And it hurt. He didn't make a habit of it, and Purdey suspected that any reason why he'd start doing it now wasn't one that would do him much good in the long run. But he clearly wasn't going to tell her why he was acting the way he was. So if she was going to have any luck working it out, she needed help.

Just then, she passed the tall, upright figure of McBain, the Ministry's chief pedant when it came to the ins and outs of how the department worked. He knew about most things that went on in the building. If there was an innocent explanation for Gambit's actions, he'd know about it.

"McBain!" Purdey did a quick about-face and dashed after the agent. He paused and turned to meet her expectantly.

"Ah, Purdey. Can I help?"

"I hope so," Purdey said truthfully. "Are we working on anything with MI6 at the moment? Anything that might require a liaison?" She knew Gambit had tried to give the word a different connotation, but in his world, there was no reason why both meanings couldn't apply.

McBain thought for a moment. "No," he said finally. "No, nothing I've heard."

"Nothing?" Purdey did her best to hide her dismay. "Nothing at all? Nothing Gambit would be involved with?"

"No..." McBain looked suspicious now. "Why? Do you have a reason to think Gambit is working with MI6?"

Purdey sighed. "No," she admitted. "No, I don't." She managed a carefree smile. "It's nothing, McBain. Sorry to trouble you." She doubled back the way she came, suddenly sure of her next move. McBain had been helpful in spite of his answer. She knew what she needed—another person in whom to confide. She needed help.

"Not at all," McBain murmured, watching the blonde retreat. It probably was nothing, but it didn't hurt to be thorough. He had some checking to do.


	5. Telepathy

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

Author's Note: I keep sneaking in updates under the wire, and I promise that's not my intention. The time just slips away, and I've no idea where it goes. Nowhere fun, I'd hazard.

But anyway, here's another chapter to keep you going.

* * *

John Steed was seated at the antique desk tucked into the corner of his living room when Purdey arrived. The senior agent was too busy double-checking that everything was in place for his party to notice the blonde's obvious distress immediately. "Purdey, my dear. I can't thank you enough for aiding me in my hour of need, though you seem to have chosen the wrong hour. I wasn't expecting you just yet."

"I know," Purdey replied, glancing furtively around the room as though uncertain of her surroundings. "Is Gambit here?"

"No, I suspect he'll turn up closer to the arranged time." Steed finished jotting down some notes and finally glanced up at his younger colleague. For the first time, he noticed her anxious demeanour, hands fidgeting distractedly, eyes downcast in thought, perfect white teeth torturing her bottom lip mercilessly. Steed frowned, a thin line appearing between his eyes, and he leaned back in his chair. "Is everything all right, Purdey?" he inquired, voice laced with concern.

Purdey looked up, shook her head. "No, I don't think so," she said truthfully. "I didn't want to worry you. I didn't want to come to you until I was certain, until I couldn't achieve any more on my own."

"And clearly you can't," Steed deduced, spreading his arms wide. "Worry away."

Purdey sighed and crossed her arms. "It's about Gambit," she began.

Steed allowed himself a small smile. "It usually is. What's he up to now? Another scandal with the typing pool?"

Purdey didn't even smile at that, which told Steed just how serious this was. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish it was," Purdey confessed. "Or him skipping his medical again, or anything. Anything at all but what he's been doing lately."

Steed was very serious now, too. "Is he in trouble?" he asked, immediately concerned for his younger colleague's well-being.

"I think so," Purdey agreed, pacing the room with smooth, fluid strides. "At least, that's what the evidence seems to say."

Steed's agent mind kicked in. "Start from the beginning," he instructed.

Purdey nodded, keeping up the pacing. She couldn't bear sitting still just now. "It started the night before last. We went out for a drink. Remember?"

"It was only one drink, so yes, my mind is capable of reaching back that far."

Purdey ignored the hint of sarcasm. "I asked Gambit if he wanted to join us, but he turned me down. He said he had a report to finish, some old assignment that he hadn't finished filing away, and it was due. I thought it was odd because I couldn't remember there being any recent assignments where you and I filed our reports, and Gambit didn't." She shot a sideways glance at Steed, hoping he'd contradict her. "Do you?"

Steed thought for a moment. "Not that I recall," he said slowly. "But that doesn't necessarily mean it's not true. These things do tend to blur together." He regarded Purdey expectantly. "I'd give Gambit the benefit of the doubt, if I were you, and I'm assuming that's exactly what you did. So there must be more to bring you here than Gambit's tardy work habits."

"Yes, unfortunately," Purdey confirmed. "I thought it was odd. He seemed odd, as though he were hiding something, and I tried to let it go. But there was something...a feeling I couldn't shake. I knew something was wrong." She paused, and Steed was surprised to see a blush tinge her cheeks. "So I'm afraid the next day, I spied on him. Only a little."

Steed sucked his teeth, and grimaced slightly. "Purdey, I know they train you to be on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary, even among your closest friends and colleagues, but don't you think you've taken it a bit too far? We do have to operate with a margin of trust, you know."

"I know!" Purdey exclaimed. "And I do! I trust you, and I trust Gambit. I would never...well, I wouldn't have done what I did if I didn't think something was wrong. But I felt it. That sixth sense they're always telling us to cultivate. Instinct. I know Gambit, and I know when he's acting strangely." She tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear irritably. "I'm not happy I did it, but I had to. For Mike's sake, if nothing else."

"All right," Steed soothed, hands outstretched in a gesture to calm down. "I believe you. It's finished now. What did you find?"

Purdey looked heavenwards, as though praying she didn't have to say what she was about to. "I saw him in the lab, on one of the computers. He wrote something down, and then he went straight to the basement. To Button-Lip."

Steed cocked his head to one side. "You saw him go to Button-Lip, without him seeing you? In those corridors?"

"Well, I saw him take the lift down to that floor," Purdey amended. "But I know that's where he went. I went there myself, but he was gone, and Cynthia was no help at all. She wouldn't confirm or deny whether he'd been there. Why would she do that if Gambit hadn't told her to keep quiet?"

"Keeping quiet is rather her stock and trade," Steed pointed out, then added when he saw Purdey's frustrated expression. "I'm only pointing out what Gambit, or anyone else for that matter, could say to defend himself. Cynthia's cagey at the best of times, even more so when her personal life is involved. Gambit may very well have paid her a visit, but it may have been a social call."

"That's what he said," Purdey said wryly.

"There you are, then."

"But if he was only there to see Cynthia, why was at the computer? What did he write down? And why was it that when I called a technician to retrieve his search query, the history was conveniently wiped?"

Steed, for the first time, registered a tiny bit of alarm. "Was it?"

"Yes."

"And it couldn't have been someone else?"

"No. I stayed with the machine until the technician came. No one else used it. The technician said only someone with a particular interest in computers would know how to do that. And you know how Gambit's always fiddling with them."

"And did you ask Gambit if he wiped the history?"

"No," Purdey admitted. "I may have done today, but we were interrupted. He had a call. From a girl at MI6."

Steed's alarm inched up another notch. "MI6? You're certain?"

"Positive. The receptionist who took the call confirmed. When I asked, he made some terrible joke about liaising and inter-departmental relations, but he was hiding something. I can feel it." She bit her lip again, and added, "We're not working with MI6 on anything, are we?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Steed told her. "And is that all?"

"Yes. No." Purdey thought for a moment. "The day he turned down drinks with us, he came back from lunch and said he'd been with someone. He didn't say who, but I'm certain it was a woman." She pressed her thumbnail against her bottom lip reflectively. "He was fine before lunch, but after he came back, later that afternoon, that's when he started acting oddly."

"And you think this mystery woman may be the cause?"

"It's possible," Purdey allowed, perching on the end of Steed's desk and holding his eyes. "I'm not accusing Mike of being a traitor. But it's always possible he's being got at. He has family, some friends. Us."

"You think someone's using leverage to make him steal secrets?"

Purdey shrugged. "I don't know for certain. But if he is being threatened, you know as well as I do that he wouldn't ask for help. He'd try to do it on his own like the self-sacrificing idiot he is."

"Do you think we should offer him assistance?"

"I think we should do something!" Purdey exclaimed, slapping her palm against the desktop for emphasis. "Don't you?"

Steed nodded. "There's no harm in asking him a few questions and hearing what he has to say. If your instincts say something is wrong, then I'm willing to follow them up. You say he hasn't been forthcoming with you?"

Purdey shook her head. "It's been like talking to a wall," she said ruefully. "A wall that dances around whatever you say."

"I don't know if he'll be any more forthcoming with me, but I'll try," Steed agreed.

Purdey sighed in relief. "Thank you, Steed."

"My pleasure."

VVV

"Sorry I'm late," Gambit was saying when he strolled into the living room half an hour later. "I lost track of time, and by the time I left the traffic was a mess..." He trailed off when he saw what was waiting for him. Purdey was standing, arms crossed, expression one of brittle calm. Steed was seated behind her on the couch looking perfectly neutral. Gambit looked from one to the other, but his eyes finally settled on Purdey. He set his jaw grimly. "You went to Steed," he said knowingly, unable to keep the touch of betrayal out of his voice. Still, there was no point in trying to evade the issue. There was no escaping it now that he was here.

"I wouldn't have had to go to Steed if you'd been willing to give me a straight answer," Purdey justified, looking slightly guilty about her actions nonetheless. "I thought you might be more willing to talk to him."

Gambit's eyes narrowed slightly. "What makes you so sure I have something to say?"

"Mike Gambit..." Purdey began, frustration sapping away her calm, but Steed held up a hand to silence her before she could get any further.

"That's enough, Purdey," he said, firmly but quietly.

Gambit snorted. "Has she talked you into interrogating me?"

"No one's interrogating anyone." Steed's voice was as level as his gaze, both unflappable but brooking no argument. "Purdey came to me with certain concerns, and since she's not prone to fits of unjustified hysteria, I rather thought I owed it to her to address them. At the same time, I'm not about to take them any further until I've satisfied myself that there's something I should be worried about, particularly where my best agents are concerned. So I think it's only right I hear from you on the matter."

Gambit raised an eyebrow. "I get to put forward a defence, you mean."

"You'd need a charge first, and I've not even toyed with the idea of creating one. But we seem to need to clear the air within our triumvirate." He gestured at the armchair facing him. "Have a seat."

Gambit sighed and did as he was bid, settling into the leather-covered seat. Purdey remained standing, still fixing him with those piercing blue eyes. She looked rather betrayed herself, and Gambit was conscious, not for the first time, that he was playing a dangerous game with his relationships between his two colleagues, who had every right to feel wrong-footed by his actions. But part of him couldn't help but be disappointed that they were having this talk at all...

"Now, then," Steed began, lacing his fingers in his lap. "Purdey tells me you've been acting rather oddly of late."

"Yes, I'd gathered that much," Gambit replied, words aimed at Steed, but eyes on Purdey. They seemed to have lapsed into an unofficial staring contest. It was anyone's guess who would blink first.

"She says you paid a visit to Button-Lip yesterday," Steed went on, cool as the proverbial cucumber. "And that you told her you were visiting Cynthia Wentworth-Howe."

"That's what I said," Gambit agreed.

"And you also were in contact with a woman from MI6, with whom you're meant to be, ah, liaising." Steed's demeanour cracked ever-so-slightly to allow himself a small smile at the term, and Gambit felt himself return it automatically. Purdey, noticing his grin, looked from him to Steed in outrage. "It's not that funny!" she chastised.

"That's a matter of opinion," Steed asserted, ignoring her reprimand and turning back to Gambit. "Is that what you told her?"

"Yes," Gambit confirmed, wondering when Steed was going to get to the point. Did he expect Gambit to break down and confess if he drew it out long enough?

"All right," Steed continued. "Now that we're all working off the same assumptions, there's only one thing I need to know."

Gambit regarded him stoically, prepared for the worst. "And what's that?"

Steed leaned forward in his seat, hands on knees, gaze locked on his. "Are you involved in anything I _need_ to know about?"

Gambit felt himself smile inwardly at the emphasis, felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Steed had practically signposted the word 'need' in verbal italics. He was giving Gambit an out, the benefit of the doubt. Not only did it mean he wasn't going to press him for details, it meant he wasn't going to interfere, either.

"No," Gambit said truthfully, choosing his words just as carefully. "I'm not doing anything you need to know about."

Steed watched him carefully as he spoke, seeking out the clues that told him that Gambit understood the importance of the question, and what his answer meant. They were communicating with more than words now, an unspoken understanding rising to fill the air between them, no longer crackling with suspicion or animosity.

Finally, Steed said, without breaking eye contact. "All right. That's settled, then."

Purdey was looking from one to the other in disbelief. "Honestly, the pair of you!" she exclaimed, tone a mixture of frustration and disgust.

Steed looked away to regard her. "I don't know what you mean, my dear," he said innocently. "Gambit's answered my question and told us we have nothing to worry about, and I believe him."

Purdey, to her credit, wasn't buying it. "You know exactly what I mean. You didn't ask him anything. The pair of you are practicing your telepathy again, and you've left me out completely. Sometimes I wonder why I bother talking to either of you about anything at all." With that, she turned on her heel and stalked off, disappearing into the kitchen. Soon after, a number of violent clatters and clashes emanated from the room, as Purdey took her ire out on Steed's cooking implements.

Gambit turned sympathetic eyes on his boss. "She's not going to get over that any time soon," he predicted.

"Possibly," Steed agreed, rising from his seat and moving to the sideboard housing his decanters. "But I suspect we'll survive. In the meantime, we can wait out the storm with a drink. Scotch?"

"Thanks," Gambit said gratefully. "I, uh, don't think Purdey believes I'm innocent."

"Neither do I," Steed said cheerfully, turning round to hand him his drink and smiling at Gambit's dumbstruck expression. "But then none of us are, not since we were old enough for solid foods."

Gambit's laugh was out of relief as much as seeing the humour in the situation. "I'd be surprised if you waited that long," he quipped, accepting the glass. "I'll bet you were ruthless, cunning, and devious in utero."

Steed seemed to consider this. "I confess that my memories of my gestation are rather hazy, but you may have a point." He returned to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy. "But then we're all capable of any number of things, particularly as we get older, and come to the shocking realisation that there exists not only black and white, but a rather wide selection of greys as well."

Gambit froze with his glass halfway to his lips, suddenly aware that he was not completely off the hook. He should have expected it—this was Steed, after all. There was always another shoe to drop, often from a completely different pair than the original. He mentally chastised himself for letting his guard down.

Steed, however, plopped himself back on the couch and sipped his brandy as though he hadn't a care in the world. "The most important thing, the one that's the measure of a man, or woman—" He toasted the kitchen door behind which Purdey was still exorcising her rage. "—is which shades we select from the palette."

Gambit regarded him over the rim of his glass. "Which ones do you think I work with?"

"Oh, the lighter, I'd say," Steed pronounced, holding his brandy glass up to the light and examining the amber liquid within. "Lighter than you'd likely ascribe to yourself, knowing your habit of holding yourself to an impossibly high standard." He swirled the liquid around, watching it as though mesmerised. "Certainly lighter than my own, for reasons I don't care to expand upon at the moment. No, Gambit, I can assure you that your palette is quite satisfactory. Even the darkest tones are used sparingly and with excellent judgment. I wouldn't work with you if I thought otherwise." Steed lowered his glass, and extended it toward Gambit. "Which is why, if you were up to something, I'd be willing to ignore it. Cheers."

Gambit hesitated, just for a moment, before stretching out his own arm to clink his glass against the senior agent's. This was it—the condition to go with the reprieve. Steed knew, and was letting him know he knew, but in his usual roundabout, indirect way. "Even if I was doing something against the rules?" he inquired. "Theoretically, of course."

"Of course." Steed sipped his brandy again, grey eyes bright and sharp over the rim of the glass. "I think you know me well enough by now to have come to the conclusion that rules for their own sake are not of paramount importance where I'm concerned. Sometimes the job is served by following them, sometimes it isn't. Distinguishing between the two is where all but the best fail."

"And what if it wasn't the job at stake?" Gambit wanted to know, gazing into his glass when Steed's piercing gaze seemed to bore into his skull. "What if it's more...personal than that?"

Steed, uncharacteristically, shrugged. "I won't pretend that no one in the history of the service hasn't used his position for less-than-professional ends," he said truthfully. "And I certainly won't claim I've never been guilty of it, especially not to you after that business with Purdey and Spelman." They both shared an involuntary grimace at the mention of Purdey's hostagetaking. "It's not approved of, certainly not encouraged, but as long as one doesn't make a habit of it, I'd be inclined to turn a blind eye." He paused, and waited for Gambit to look up again, this time commanding Gambit's gaze to lock with his own. "But if it's a trivial reason, it had better remain trivial. And if it's serious, there had better be a very, very good explanation waiting at the end to clear all the marks off the ledger."

Gambit nodded. Steed would always give Gambit enough rope whenever he asked for it, even without an explanation, because he trusted him, the condition being that it was up to Gambit to ensure he didn't hang himself with it. If he did, Steed would cut him down, but if he crossed the point of no return, the same knife used to sever the rope would be turned against him. In a strange way, it was comforting to know if Gambit ever went completely off the rails, there was someone out there with the courage—the kindness—to stop him. But the most important thing to take from it all was the trust—Steed trusted him. He knew there was something he was hiding from him, and he was willing to let it go. It was up to Gambit not to betray that trust.

"Well, it's all theoretical, so it doesn't really matter, does it?" he said as lightly as he could manage, and Steed smiled.

"Of course," he agreed. "Pure conjecture."

Gambit flashed a lightning-quick smile. "Glad we've got that straightened out. There's, uh, something completely unrelated I'd like to ask you."

Steed's eyebrows climbed up his forehead with interest. "Such as?"

"I'd like to request some personal leave," Gambit said frankly.

"How long?" Steed inquired, not bothering to ask the reason behind the request. He had a feeling he already knew.

"Twenty-four hours."

"Starting when?"

"Tomorrow evening," Gambit informed. "I, uh, thought since we don't have much on, it might be a good time to get away from the office for a bit, recharge."

"Yes, I suppose that makes sense," Steed murmured, as though weighing the plausibility. "I've no reason to object, and as you say I don't have urgent need of you at the moment..." He considered the last of his brandy, then nodded. "All right. Granted. I'll have a pink and purple pass issued tomorrow."

"Thanks," Gambit said, and he meant it.

"Not at all." Steed downed the last of his brandy and turned to frown at the kitchen door. "And now, I think we've let Purdey stew long enough. I think we had better intervene while there's still something left of my kitchen."

"Fine," Gambit agreed, finishing his Scotch. "But you go first. I'll take a bullet for the job, but not your heritage china."


	6. Reconciliation

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

* * *

"Still working at this hour?" Mike Gambit asked in mild disbelief as he strolled into Emma Knight's office at Knight Industries, only to find the company's namesake ensconced in her desk, bent over a mountain of paperwork illuminated by a single desk lamp. "You know it's just gone half past midnight? Are you hoping your employees will follow your example, up your productivity?"

Emma leaned back in her chair and shot him a less-than-amused expression across her desktop. "While I do try to lead by example, Mike," she replied, "I don't make a habit of burning the midnight oil here of all places. But since you pushed our meeting back several hours, I thought I may as well try to be productive."

"Ah," Gambit said eloquently, having the decency to look sheepish as he approached her desk. "Sorry. Steed had a party, and he asked Purdey and me to help. I promised to do it ages ago. It wouldn't have gone over well if I cancelled." Another thought occurred to him as Emma rose from her seat, and he added hastily, "It wasn't your sort of party, if you're wondering. Lots of officious types. I think Steed gave it to try and make up for all the times he goes over their heads and doesn't follow procedure. Not the sort of thing he'd make you endure."

"Gambit," Emma cut in, before he could go on, "Steed's social life is not my concern, anymore than mine is yours. Anyway, it's all worked out for the best, you coming here this late. There's hardly anyone here to see you come in, so they won't wonder why you're here. We wouldn't want them to get the wrong idea."

"Or the right one," Gambit quipped meaningfully, but Emma's only response was a small smile. "Anyway, I've got good news. I know where Peter is."

Emma's eyes lit up. "That _is_ good news. How on earth did you manage that?"

"I have my ways," Gambit said coyly. "But it turns out that our theory was right—Peter's working for a company that's a front for MI6. They've brought him in as a consultant to help them design some sort of aviation project. I'm assuming it's a plane, though no one will let me know for certain. Still, it doesn't matter for our purposes. They have him holed up with the rest of design team, which is why you've been having so much trouble reaching him. They don't allow outside contact—in case of a leak, you know."

"But you know where," Emma surmised. "Thank goodness. I'll have someone send the papers..."

Gambit shook his head. "No, you won't."

Emma frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You won't send anything, because I'm not going to tell you where it is," Gambit said firmly.

Emma's frown deepened into a scowl. "But you said—"

"I said I knew. I didn't say I was going to tell you," Gambit repeated. "When you asked me this favour, I said I'd help you. I didn't say I'd tell you everything I found. I know you're trustworthy, and I know that you've signed more confidentiality agreements than you can count, but the source who told me about Peter did it only because I promised her I wouldn't pass along the location. I'm willing to risk my job because that's my choice, but I can't make her do the same."

Emma sighed, ran her fingers through her auburn tresses. "All right, I suppose that's fair. You've done more than I had any right to ask you to. But that leaves us with a problem. How do I get the papers to Peter if I can't contact him?"

"You can't," Gambit pointed out. "But I can."

Emma's frown made a reappearance. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll take the papers to Peter," Gambit said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Emma arched a sceptical eyebrow. "And you don't think that will raise any alarms, a Ministry man checking into an MI6 stronghold?"

"It probably would," Gambit agreed, reaching into his breast pocket, "if I went in as me. But my source was very obliging. She made me this." He withdrew an ID card and showed it to Emma. She squinted at it in the dim light, trying to make out the details. It was Gambit's photo, but the name beside it was decidedly different.

"'Michael O'Carroll'?" she read aloud.

Gambit grinned. "At your service."

Emma crossed her arms, unconvinced. "And you think they'll let you in with that?"

"It's an MI6 pass," Gambit said unconcernedly. "And I'm only going to be playing courier. They won't expect me to know what they're doing or why, or to care, which I won't. My source will have them expect me. I'll take the train out tomorrow evening, get it signed the morning after, be back here well before your deadline."

"And what will Steed say when you don't turn up for work that morning?" Emma wanted to know.

"Nothing. I requested twenty-four hours personal leave."

Emma cocked her head to one side. "And Steed approved it? Are you certain he doesn't suspect anything?"

Gambit snorted with derision. "Of course he doesn't suspect—he _knows_ I'm up to something. But he trusts me enough that he's willing to turn a blind eye."

"And Purdey?" Emma pressed.

"Purdey's already gone to Steed with her suspicions, and he didn't do anything. If she goes beyond him, Steed'll back me up. But she won't."

"You seem awfully confident of that."

Gambit was suddenly evasive, eyes carefully avoiding hers. "Yeah, well, he convinced me."

"Did he?" Emma stepped in close. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, Mike, but it's occurred to me that I don't know quite why you've been so willing to help me."

Gambit's smile was a little too earnest. "Because you're a friend."

"Yes," Emma agreed. "I believe you, but that's only part of it. You have an ulterior motive."

"I do?" Gambit was unfazed. "News to me."

Emma twisted her mouth in annoyance. "Don't play games, Mike. You know perfectly well that you wouldn't offer to go this far on my account. You must have known that Steed and Purdey would notice something eventually. It's as though you want to get caught."

Gambit snorted in derision. "That's ridiculous. Why would I want to do that?"

"To see what happens," Emma shot back. "No, that's not quite right. To see what they do."

"The Ministry?"

"Of course not!" Emma was really riled now, brown eyes flashing. "Steed and Purdey! You're testing them, their reactions, their..." She searched around for the right word. "Their loyalty," she concluded.

Gambit straightened up from where he was leaning against Emma's desk, jaw clenched angrily. "If you're implying that I don't trust them with my life, you've been spending too many nights behind that desk. I just told you Steed's turned a blind eye, and Purdey went to him with her suspicions, not McKay." His nostrils flared dangerously. "You know as well as I do that I would never question that."

"All right," Emma capitulated, but not completely. "Maybe 'loyalty' was the wrong word. Maybe you were looking for something else. Attention, perhaps."

Gambit seemed slightly taken aback by the word. He ducked his head self-consciously. "I don't know what you mean," he murmured.

Emma felt her anger drain away with the realisation that she'd made progress. "I think you do," she said softly, laying a hand on his arm. "I know you might think I'm too busy to take in everything you say, but I do, and I'd need a dangerously-deficient long-term memory to not notice all the times you mention Steed and Purdey spending time together, or talking, or exchanging glances. And I'd have to be blind to notice the look on your face when you told me." Gambit raised his head, just enough to meet her eyes, and Emma gifted him with a crooked little smile. "You feel extraneous, don't you? As if they're drawing together and squeezing you out. You don't doubt their loyalty, or their trust, although I assume you don't have any qualms about giving them a chance to demonstrate them. But what you really want is for them to notice you, appreciate you. You want to convince yourself that they still care."

Gambit looked heavenward. "I, uh, never thought of it that way, to be honest."

"I'm sure you didn't," Emma agreed. "I'm sure your intention to help me was genuine. But I think you know a part of you, deep down, was hoping they'd catch wind of it—that they'd chase you, instead of you trying to insinuate yourself in with them." A line formed between her eyebrows, but it was out of sympathy, not annoyance. "You think they'd rather be without you."

Gambit's smile didn't reach his eyes. "You don't see them. They get along like a house on fire. And they—well, Purdey—she's got a case of hero-worship, and it's only a matter of time before Steed..." He shrugs. "Should have seen it coming. It was always Steed and the girl, wasn't it? There never was a part for me in the script, not in the long-term."

"You can't possibly believe that," Emma countered. "And I don't think you do, not really. Besides, Steed's made his position very clear. If he didn't want you around, he wouldn't be giving you the benefit of the doubt this very moment, and he certainly wouldn't be willing to put his career on the line to protect you, which you know very well he'll do if your plan goes sideways. And he took the time to tell you, lest you think he's bent on cutting you out. He trusts you, he's loyal to you, and he cares about what happens to you..." She trailed off when she saw Gambit's expression. "But it's not about Steed, is it? Or at the very least, not as much as it is about Purdey."

"That much," Gambit said ruefully, "I'm willing to admit."

Emma suddenly looked confused. "She's been keeping tabs on you ever since you started helping me. That should be all the proof you need that she cares."

"I never said she was psychopathic," Gambit said gruffly. "She's worried I'm in over my head, selling out to the other side or heaven knows what else, and it's driving her mad that I'm not telling her what she wants to know. But that could be professional concern, or even friendly concern. But she's never once said that she cares, that what I do means something more to her than how it affects national security. It bothers her because she hates being out of the loop, and she's frustrated, enough so that she went to _Steed_." His jaw started working at the name. "I want to know there's something beyond that. Still. I want her to say it." He turned inquiring eyes on Emma. "Is that wrong?"

Emma's gaze was liquid. "You love her, don't you?"

Gambit shrugged. "Does it matter?"

Emma opened her mouth to reply, decided against it. "You must know she cares," she said instead.

"Maybe," Gambit said with a sigh. "But I haven't seen a lot of evidence to back it up. And if she doesn't, then it's better I know now than string myself along with false hope. Better to cut myself loose while I still have my sanity intact." He gave her a shaky smile. "I'd better be going if I'm going to get everything together for tomorrow." He seemed to reconsider, expression uncertain.  
"Unless you really don't want me to go. I know you're taking a risk leaving it all in my hands." He leaned in close. "Do you trust me, Emma?"

Emma's hand slid up his arm to his shoulder. "You know I do. More than trust."

"Yes," Gambit confirmed. "But it's still good to hear you say it." He forgot himself for a moment, gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. "I'll see you in two days."

He pulled away, and Emma watched him go, a tall, slim silhouette fading into the dark. She dearly hoped someone would go after him before he made good on his words and drifted away forever. But there was nothing she could do. Only one person could stop him now.

* * *

It had just turned six when Gambit was interrupted in packing his overnight bag by an insistent knocking on his door. His initial intention to ignore it was quickly thwarted by the voice which quickly followed.

"Mike Gambit, I know you're in there! Don't you dare pretend you're not—your landlord saw you arrive half an hour ago. I'm coming in one way or another—I'll use my key if I have to. Now open this door."

Gambit sighed, and tossed the shirt he was holding into his overnight bag before crossing the room to the door. When he opened it, he was greeted by Purdey, face like thunder.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" she demanded, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Hello to you, too, Purdey," Gambit replied dryly. "What did I do this time?"

"You know perfectly well," Purdey snapped back. "Did you really think you'd be able to keep your application for a pink and purple pass from me?" She cocked her head, mock-quizzical. "Or did you think if you managed to avoid me today, I'd somehow fail to notice when you didn't come in to work tomorrow?"

Gambit sighed resignedly. "Steed told you," he surmised, but was surprised when Purdey violently shook her head.

"Steed won't tell me a thing," she grumbled, clearly no more pleased with the senior agent than she was with him. "Ever since the pair of you practiced your telepathy, he's been about as helpful as you have. I had to do some digging of my own to find out. Twenty-four hours of personal leave. That's what you requested, isn't it?"

Gambit shrugged. "If I denied it, would you believe me?"

"No, sadly," Purdey said truthfully, then caught a glimpse of the interior of the flat through the doorway over Gambit's shoulder. Her eyes widened in alarm at what she saw. "You're packing!" she exclaimed, barging past him into the flat before he could stop her.

Gambit shut the door behind them. "Ah, that must be an A for observation," he quipped.

Purdey whirled on him angrily. "Don't patronise me, Gambit. The last time you used that line, you lied to me about Base 47. I didn't like being lied to then, and I don't like it now." She jutted her chin out defiantly. "I want you tell me why you requested leave."

"It's personal leave," Gambit growled back.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it's personal, so I don't have to tell you." Gambit strode past her, resumed packing.

Purdey pushed her fringe back from her forehead in exasperation, and let it fall back in place untidily. "Mike Gambit, I've called you a lot of things in my time, but I don't think I've ever had to use the word 'idiot.' After what you've been up to, you must know how suspicious leaving now will look."

"As far as everyone but you is concerned, I haven't been up to anything," Gambit reminded, finishing filling his case and closing it carefully. He turned his head so his eyes met hers. "Unless you've found someone who believes you."

"I'm sure I could," Purdey said quietly, rage suddenly draining away. "Steed might be willing to turn a blind eye, but to someone like McBain, it would be more than enough to justify dragging you in, perhaps to put you on probation."

"Maybe," Gambit agreed, straightening up. "But I can promise you there's no reason for you to do that." He arched an interested eyebrow. "Unless you don't trust me..."

"Don't be ridiculous! I trust you more than any man in the world," Purdey said with feeling.

Gambit's eyebrows shot up at that. "What about Steed?"

"We're not talking about Steed."

"But you said..."

"It doesn't matter," Purdey cut in, but there was a touch of red tinging her cheeks. "The point is, I do trust you. I trust you to do right by me, by Steed, by anyone and everyone in the whole world. Except yourself." The air between them filled up with a heavy silence as they regarded one another. Purdey spoke again. "And that's why I'm worried. Because I know you'd never cross over to the other side. Not for money, not for glory, definitely not for a plush office and a promotion. If you were being got at, it would always be because of someone." She held his eyes. "It could be me. It could be Steed. It could be anyone in the department. It could be your family. But whoever it was, you'd never give them anything that could compromise the country, or the Ministry. So that leaves one bargaining chip, one source of leverage, one thing that you could sacrifice for the sake of everything else." Her gaze was boring into his, bright blue eyes almost painfully wide. "You."

Gambit didn't, couldn't say anything, because he knew it was true. If it came down to brass tacks, and the choice was between Purdey, or Steed, or putting the country at risk, and putting his own life on the line, well, he wouldn't even need to think about it. It wasn't a choice. It was a foregone conclusion.

Purdey was watching him, watching with those eyes that knew absolutely everything, despite knowing so little about his past. She crossed to him, three perfect, graceful strides-a dancer's strides-and looked up into his face.

"And that's why I'm worried, Mike Gambit. Not because I think you're going to sell out and leave the country. But because, if you are being got at, I think you'll go off and pull some damnfool noble stunt, and disappear, and no one will ever be the wiser, because you never asked for help." She reached out, let her fingers rest near the knot of his tie, a gesture of intimacy that also harkened back to the lie about Base 47. She hadn't done it in awhile. He was beginning to think she'd forgotten about it. "So please, Mike, if you are being got at, tell me, for heaven's sake. Tell me and I can help. I know you want to leave me out of it, and Steed, but it's not worth it. Because whatever it is, it can't be worse than you never coming back. Anything else may be awful, and impossible, and insurmountable, but the only thing that truly terrifies me is the idea of never seeing you again. So tell me, Mike Gambit. Or Steed. Or McKay. Or someone. Just don't keep quiet until it's too late."

Gambit held her eyes, seeking out the affection he'd been subconsciously searching for these past few days. "You wouldn't be alone," he reminded her. "Even if I disappeared. You'd always have Steed. You'd figure out something between the pair of you." What, he wasn't going to say. No point in pushing the issue, or giving her ideas if he'd gotten it wrong.

Purdey tsked in annoyance. "I don't know what you think of me, Mike Gambit, but I certainly don't make a habit of substituting one person for another. I can't swap the two of you out for one another. It doesn't work like that. The relationship I have with Steed isn't the same one I have with you. And even though the telepathy between the two of you drives me mad, I know it's part of what made you work so well before I was on the team, and we'd lose an advantage without it. And it's different again when we're all together. There's no way of replacing any of that." For the time in a long time, she smiled. "Why do you think the three of us work together so well?"

"I thought it was the drinking and the habit of pulling damnfool stunts," Gambit quipped, and Purdey managed a slight smile for the first time in days.

"That's what makes you and Steed such a good match. I'm the only one of us who doesn't think a mission isn't complete without taking a bullet."

"And if you're very lucky, you'll keep it that way." Gambit's mouth quirked up at one side. "I'm sorry if I've worried you, Purdey."

Purdey's eyes lit up. "Does that mean you're not going?"

Gambit shook his head reluctantly. "I have to go, Purdey-girl. But I can promise you that I'm not going to disappear."

Purdey's shoulders sagged in disappointment. "Mike..."

"I'll be back," Gambit repeated. "I promise. And you know I always keep my promises. It's a promise that's the reason I have to go."

Purdey searched his face, then nodded, reluctantly. It was true—Gambit had never made a promise he couldn't keep. Not to her, not to anyone she knew. "All right. But when will you be back?"

"When my leave's up," Gambit said truthfully. "It kicked in just a few minutes ago. I should be back the same time tomorrow."

"Back here?" Purdey wanted to know, unwilling to leave anything to chance.

Gambit hadn't gotten that far. It hadn't mattered what happened after his assignment, so long as everything went smoothly. "No," he decided. "I'll go to the stud farm. Steed might have something for us by then. He'll need to catch me up."

"Right," Purdey said briskly. "Six tomorrow evening, at the stud farm." Her eyes went to his tie. "Don't you dare be late." She gave the garment one of her little tugs for emphasis.

Gambit reached up and squeezed her hand. "I don't make a habit of keeping girls waiting," he reminded her, then broke away to pick up his case. Purdey watched him go to the door, open it, then turn around. He raised his hand, with the back facing her, and closed it. "Ciao."

For once, she didn't mirror him, crossing her arms instead. "See you soon," she said instead, the words expressing her sentiment.

Gambit nodded, gave her a reassuring smile. Then he was gone. Purdey bit her lip. She prayed letting him go hadn't been a mistake.

* * *

She waited until the XJS disappeared into the distance, and she could no longer see it from Gambit's living room window. She didn't dare leave the flat sooner, lest he get the wrong idea and think she was still trying to follow him. She wasn't happy he was going, wouldn't relax until he was back again, safe, in one piece, but she knew, intuitively, that he'd finally been honest with her, and that was all she needed.

It was while she was on her way to her car that she spotted him, the tall, upright figure wrapped up in a topcoat, standing on the pavement across the street from Gambit's flat despite the mild drizzle. She identified him immediately, pursed her lips and mentally rebuked herself. Of course. After the way she'd acted, she should have expected him. She took a detour, left her car in favour of crossing the street. He didn't bother to conceal himself as she approached. She had a feeling he was waiting for her.

"McBain," she identified, sliding her hands into the pockets of her mac to prevent them clenching into fists.

"Purdey," McBain replied levelly. He nodded up at Gambit's flat. "I see you paid him a visit."

Purdey nodded. "Yes," she confirmed.

"Anything I should know about?" The tone was artfully casual, but Purdey knew he was monitoring her reaction carefully. Rather than attempt to deceive him, she let her carefully controlled mask slip, and sighed.

"No," she said truthfully. "I...it seems I got it wrong."

McBain was really listening now. "Got what wrong?"

Purdey shrugged, smile ruefully. "Gambit," she said simply. "Just when I think I've worked that man out..." She shook her head in mild disbelief. "Somehow, I think I trust him more now than I ever have."

McBain arched an interested eyebrow. "So there's no reason to follow him?"

"Follow him?" Purdey frowned. "Certainly not. Whatever gave you that idea?"

McBain scowled in mild exasperation. "You came to me about Gambit. And MI6. Don't you remember?"

"Oh, that," Purdey said carelessly, as though it was the most inconsequential thing in the world. "Knowing him, he probably really was liaising. The typing pool will probably know about it before long." She met his eyes, suddenly serious. "It wasn't him, McBain. At least, not all of it. I think there was miscommunication on both sides, and I'm just as guilty as he is." She paused, then added. "Don't ever tell him I said that. I'll never hear the end of it."

McBain looked uncertain. "Well, if you're certain it's nothing serious—"

"I am," Purdey confirmed. "Really. I shouldn't have said anything at all. I hope you haven't wasted too much of your time."

"No," McBain allowed, still eyeing her up. "Not much."

"Good." Purdey flashed him a smile. "Do you need a lift?"

"Thank you, but I'll find my own way."

"Suit yourself. I'll see you later." Purdey waved jauntily and headed back toward her car. McBain watched her drive away, officious nature battling with his better instincts. Strictly speaking, he knew he should look into Purdey now, as well as Gambit. But his early inquiries hadn't turned up any of his much-prized evidence, his usual basis for any investigation, and anyway, there were other files clamouring for his attention. All the same...He sighed, and started in the opposite direction, to where he'd left his car. One more inquiry, and then he'd let it lie. Yes. Both bureaucracy and instinct could live with that.


	7. Peter

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

Author's Note: Sneaking in an update now, as it'll probably be the only chance I have for awhile. The edit was a bit rushed for this one, but I don't think I spelled anyone's name wrong. ;-) Many thanks for all the lovely reviews-they mean a lot. Updates have been slow to come, though that's never been my intent, but I promise I'll wrap this one up before the end of the year. Only one more chapter to come after this, a tag scene of sorts. Then, hopefully, I'll manage to post some Christmassy fluff before the day itself. Until then, a fairly long chapter to distract you from all that shopping you're meant to be doing.

* * *

Gambit took the train to the town his MI6 contact had provided, keeping half an eye open just in case he was being followed. After Purdey's visit, however, he didn't think it was likely. He smiled to himself. Emma had been right, about many things. Thankfully. Now it was time to pay her back for her shrewd observations.

He installed himself in an unglamourous but serviceable room over a pub for the night, and despite taking all the regular precautions, he slept peacefully and without interruption, awoke early enough that he didn't have to rush through breakfast, and by eleven was striding down the lane that would take him to the comfortable old house sitting just outside the heart of the town, which MI6 had pressed into service.

Gambit had chosen to dress in his pinstriped suit for this particular visit, in his experience always the best choice when he wanted to insinuate himself into the offices of bureaucrats, or anyone else with a predilection for officiousness. Something about a pinstripe seemed to calm that lot enough that they'd temper their annoyance at being pressed into doing things outside the 'usual' channels. Gambit was hoping it would work just as well on suspicious MI6 agents who'd spent the past month holed up with a bunch of engineering types. Hopefully they wouldn't feel the need to shoot him just for the entertainment value.

In his right hand, Gambit carried the suitcase containing Emma's papers, a suitably nondescript affair that befitted a courier, which really was what he was. The fact that his mission was a bit unorthodox didn't change that.

Reaching the gate to the house, which was helpfully unequipped with a lock, Gambit squared his shoulders, and arranged his face into the suitably bland, nondescript expression that Cynthia's minions at Button-Lip had down to a tee. Then he set on up the main walkway. He reached the door and gave the knocker three short raps. It didn't take long for someone to answer.

"Yes?" the man asked, eyeing him suspiciously through the smallest gap he could without actively looking as though he didn't want anyone looking in. "Can I help you?"

Gambit slid the MI6 ID out of his outer breast pocket, and held it under the doorman's nose. "Michael O'Carroll. I'm the courier with a delivery for Peter Peel." He tucked the ID away again as soon as the man had glanced at it. "I was told that someone telephoned ahead."

The doorman looked him up and down, didn't seem to find anything that would justify shooting him, and nodded, with barely-noticeable disappointment. "They did. You'd better come in."

Gambit flashed one of his millisecond-long smiles and accepted the invitation. It was easier than he'd expected. All the same, he wasn't surprised when the doorman was quickly joined by burly friend.

"We'll need to do a search," the doorman told him. "Procedure. You understand?"

"Of course." Gambit handed the briefcase off to the burly one, and held his hands up obediently as he was patted down, mentally congratulating himself for resisting the urge to bring any of his usual arsenal along for the ride. He felt slightly vulnerable, but he was clean. The burly man rifled through the papers in the briefcase and came up empty. He shook his head at the doorman, and closed the case to hand back to Gambit.

"Thank you for your cooperation," the doorman said, all hopes of excitement completely dashed by this point. "I'll take you to Mr. Peel."

Gambit followed him, resisting the urge to toss the burly guard a cheeky salute. Such flippancy didn't befit a courier, and could get him in trouble. _Better luck next time_... he mentally told his escort.

The doorman led him down a hall and round a corner, eventually bringing him to an oak-panelled door at the end of the corridor. "Mr. Peel's just in there," he told Gambit. "I'll remind you that his time is valuable, so keep it short."

"Yes, sir," Gambit agreed, trying to shake off the incongruity of hearing Emma's surname with 'Mr.' installed in front of it. It shouldn't have seemed wrong—it had been Peter Peel's name first, after all, and Emma had quit using it herself after her divorce. But 'Mrs. Peel' sounded much more natural to his Ministry-trained ears all the same. "It shouldn't take long," he assured the doorman, hoping he hadn't betrayed any of his internal confusion.

The doorman nodded curtly, just once, and added, "I'll be waiting just down the hall when you're finished." He strode off, rounding the corner and disappearing from sight once more. Gambit turned and knocked on the door.

"Come," said a voice inside, and Gambit turned the knob, stepped inside, and nearly fainted.

Like most Ministry trainees, Gambit had heard the stories about Emma Peel's sudden and unexpected departure from the department. Among the many, many pieces of gossip floating around the events surrounding that particular day was the assertion that Peter Peel, when viewed from the back, was the spitting image of John Steed. Like most of the stories coming out of the Ministry's rumour mill, Gambit had taken it with a grain of salt, but the second he saw the man seated behind a desk with his back to Gambit, he mentally apologised to every rumourmonger in the typing pool. Because for the second or two after Gambit walked into the room, he would have sworn blind that the man behind the desk was Steed. Same broad shoulders, same shaped head, same dark black waves gelled carefully in place. The resemblance was eerie. Gambit chanced a glance round the office he'd stepped into and half-expected to see the stud farm.

But the second the man turned around in his chair, the illusion was shattered, and Gambit was confronted by the face that he recognised in Peter Peel's Ministry file. The face was nothing like Steed's. Where Steed's eyes were grey, Peter's were a dark brown. The lips weren't anywhere near as thin, the nose straight but holding the telltale signs of at least one breakage. The jaw was a little sharper, the hairline not as square. And then, of course, there was the age. Peter Peel was over a decade younger than Steed, and while the latter was carrying his years well, it was clear that, while Steed was now firmly in his mid-fifties, Peter Peel was still in the early days of his forties. He fixed Gambit with a mildly quizzical expression.

"Can I help you?" he inquired, and the voice wasn't like Steed's either, huskier in pitch.

"I hope so," Gambit said truthfully, crossing the room and once more producing his ID. "Michael O'Carroll. I'm a courier for MI6. I have some papers for you to sign."

"Papers?" Peter was nonplussed. Clearly no one had passed on Emma's numerous messages and attempts to contact him. MI6 was serious about sealing its people off from the rest of the world. "What sort of papers?"

"I really couldn't say, sir," Gambit lamented. It was only half a lie—he hadn't gone through Emma's paperwork in any detail. There wasn't any need, not for what he was going to be doing. And a courier would be left in the dark as to the nature of his payload as much as possible, for security's sake. Gambit set the briefcase down on the desk, opened it, and produced a thin folder. "But I'm told that there's a letter explaining everything inside." He held the folder out to Peter, who took it, but not before regarding him slight suspicion.

"Is there?" he murmured, opening the folder and perusing the contents. "We'll see what it's about then, shall we?"

Gambit's smile was noncommittal. He closed the case, settled down in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, and resigned himself to a long wait as Peter read and digested the contents of the folder. From his new, closer vantage point, Gambit could pick out the scars on Peter Peel's forehead and down one cheek. They were faint, and wouldn't be noticed by the casual observer, but Gambit had more than his own share of mementos of past battles, and was an old pro at picking them out in others. Steed, amazingly, had manages to make it through his career without any lingering marks on his face, but Peter hadn't been so lucky. Then again, Peter had survived a devastating place crash, one that left his physically incapacitated for months, and mentally even longer, to the point that he'd been missing presumed dead for three years before he managed to send a message home from the deepest, darkest depths of the Brazilian jungle. Given that history, he was lucky to have emerged as unscathed as he had.

"These are from my wife," Peter said, and Gambit snapped back to reality from musing on what it would be like to forget who you were for such a long time, only to wake up one morning to the realisation that you'd lost three years.

"Are they, sir?" he commented, maintaining a professional detachment. A courier wouldn't care about the contents, just that they got where they were meant to go safely.

"Yes. Well, my ex-wife," Peter amended. He shuffled through them, seemingly unperturbed by the contents. "She wants me to give her some sort of approval to make a business deal. All business, though I suppose I shouldn't expect any more from her at this stage. Divorce doesn't often leave much room for friendly correspondence."

"I wouldn't have thought so, sir," Gambit parroted back, wishing that this would be over with already. He was tiring of playing the part of obedient and officious Michael O'Carroll, and peppering his comments with 'sir.' It reminded him too much of his time in the army, and his own version of Peter Peel's ordeal. "Will you be signing them, sir, or should I report back that you refused?"

Peter reached for a pen on the desk with a sigh. "No, I'll sign. Don't have much to gain by holding out, and even if I did, I'd like to think I wasn't the sort of man who went out of the way to make life miserable for his ex-wife."

"Very decent of you, sir," Gambit praised, genuinely for once. He didn't know what he'd do if Peter had proved difficult to convince. Emma had insisted he wouldn't be, but there was no way of knowing. Still, it seemed Emma knew her former husband very well, despite Peter's rather large absence in the middle of their marriage, and the less-than-perfect years that followed his return.

Peter's head was bent as he skimmed the papers and signed where required, but he seemed to feel the need to talk to Gambit even as he did so. "It wasn't one of those knock-down, drag-them-out divorces," he confided conversationally. "Before I'd gone through it myself, I thought there wasn't anything but. But then my ex-wife isn't any ordinary woman." He glanced up at Gambit. "You may have heard of her. She used to work with you lot, when I was AWOL. Emma Knight. Well, she was Emma Peel then, obviously. All very secret, but she did tell me the name of her department. 'The Ministry,' or something else obtuse." He chuckled at the name, as though the simplified absurdity of it amused him. A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he levelled his gaze at Gambit. "She must have contacted your department if she wanted to send these papers along..." he said slowly. "But she wouldn't have known where to send them unless someone told her I was here, and she'd need someone on the inside for that." His gaze penetrated Gambit's and looked straight into his soul. "And I was told I wouldn't receive any outside communications, which makes your visit rather unusual." He leaned back in his chair and regarded Gambit knowingly. "It wasn't _you_ she contacted, by any chance, was it?"

Gambit performed the most nonchalant shrug in the history of shrugs. "I'm just a courier, sir. She would have gone through my superiors."

"And who would that be?" Peter wanted to know. "Wouldn't be a chap called Steed, would it? Ministry man?"

"I'm MI6, sir," Gambit said levelly. "Nothing to do with the Ministry, or whatever it is you called it." He paused, then added, quite truthfully, "And no one named Steed ordered me to deliver those papers."

Peter regarded him for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Maybe you don't know Steed. But I'd bet everything I own that you know Emma."

"I may have read about her in the paper, sir," Gambit replied, praying Peter would drop the questioning and just sign the damn papers. "She runs some industrial company, doesn't she?"

"Yes. Knight Industries." Peter was looking him up and down with renewed interest. "Well, she's certainly moved on, hasn't she? I could see her reuniting with Steed, but I never saw her taking up with a younger model."

Gambit, mercifully, controlled the urge to blush. "I don't know what you're insinuating, sir, but I can assure you that I don't know your wife."

Peter, to his credit, didn't seem upset by the prospect. The smile he gave Gambit was almost sadly resigned. "All right, O'Carroll. I apologise if I've offended you."

Gambit's jaw worked slightly. "I think you'd better finish signing those papers, sir."

"Yes, of course." Peter turned back to his task. For a moment, all was silent. Then, without looking up, Peter spoke quietly. "But if you do know her, really know her, and heaven knows I don't blame you if you do, you should know that, no matter what you do for her, no matter how much you love her, it'll never be enough." He glanced up, and the smile was truly sad this time, untempered by any other emotion. "She loves someone else, you see. I don't know if she'll ever act on it, or if she already has, but it doesn't matter. If you're not him, I'm afraid you're out of luck." He ducked his head, before the waters could get too deep. "It's hard to love someone who loves someone else, O'Carroll. Don't let yourself fall into that trap if you can help it, not unless there's some inkling you may have a chance."

Gambit thought of a completely different, but very similar, situation that he'd been certain was waiting for him back in London. But he had his reasons to think it wasn't as dire as Peter's. "I won't, sir."

"Good man." Peter gave the papers one last look-through, then closed the folder and handed them back. "There you are, O'Carroll. Give them to Emma with my blessing."

"I'll be certain to pass that on, sir," Gambit assured, returning the folder to his case and reaching out to shake the man's hand. He'd come to feel rather sorry for him. "Thank you for being so prompt in carrying out your business."

Peter's smile was genuine. "And thank you for looking after Emma's affairs. It's nice to know she has resources to draw upon, even if I'm not there. Everyone needs someone, you know."

Gambit smiled back, genuinely as well. "Very true, sir. Very true."

* * *

Emma Knight was curled up on her couch, a drink in one hand, and a book in the other. She was clad in dark blue lounging pajamas, auburn hair falling casually around her shoulders. The mood in her flat was calm, serene, and yet there was something about the way her eyes flicked from her text to the small clock on her side table that betrayed a faint undercurrent of anticipation. A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows as she noted the time, before she returned to her book with renewed concentration. It was only then, of course, that her doorbell rang.

Emma smiled knowingly, unfurling her long legs and depositing her drink on the table, before rising and crossing the living area to answer the door. She was not surprised to find Mike Gambit waiting for her on the other side, sporting a rather pleased little smile all his own.

Emma arched an eyebrow. "Gentlemen callers at this hour? You're not helping my reputation."

"You can't blame me for everything," Gambit quipped back. "Anyway, your doorman remembers me, so at least he thinks you're consistent." Gambit had been to Emma's flat a handful of times, when restaurants or the offices of Knight Industries hadn't proved suitable. It was considered the better alternative to Gambit's flat, where there was always a chance that Purdey or Steed could drop by, necessitating rather uncomfortable explanations. This was much easier. Gambit tilted his head to read the cover of the book in Emma's hand, which she'd brought with her. "John Locke. Your bedtime reading's more ambitious than mine."

"Seventeenth century political-philosophy goes down much easier the third of fourth time around," Emma told him. She nodded at the briefcase in his hand. "Did you manage it?"

Gambit's grin was answer enough. "Signed, sealed, delivered," he confirmed, holding up the case as evidence.

"Ahh..." Emma almost hummed, taking it from him. "Thank you. Come in." She stepped back to allow him entry, nudging the door closed behind them before taking her precious cargo to her desk. "This will clear up any number of headaches," she went on as she opened the case and extracted the papers. "Knight Industries owes you a great debt."

"I'd settle for a drink."

Emma inclined her head towards the clutch of decanters on the sideboard. "Help yourself."

"Thanks." Gambit did just that, mentally thanking Emma for stocking such good Scotch.

"Were there any problems?" Emma wanted to know, perusing the papers.

"Nothing major," Gambit replied, sauntering over to where she stood, and peering disinterestedly at the papers over her shoulder. "Peter didn't take much persuading. He was quite reasonable. I was surprised-I actually liked him."

Emma looked up at that. "Why would you think otherwise? I did marry him. I like to think my judgment was sound when I did it, even if I was much younger than I am now."

Gambit held his hand up in mock-defence. "I believe you. It's the society pages that don't. Everything I've ever read made him out to be the villain of the piece, and the Ministry files don't help him much. They lost one of their best operatives when he turned up and spirited you away from a life you loved. It's hard not to see him as an interloper." He smiled a sad little smile. "He still loves you, you know."

Emma sighed and set the papers down on her desktop. "Of course I do."

"Did you love him?"

Emma didn't meet his eyes, instead stared straight ahead. "Very much. If it hadn't been for that plane crash, I have no doubt I still would. But things change. People change." She finally turned her head, met Gambit's eyes. "There was no reason to carry on. It would have been cruel to stay with him when there was no hope. So I let him go. Anyone who cares about anyone would do the same."

Gambit nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I think I believe that now."

Emma cocked her head quizzically. "What do you mean?"

Gambit looked down into his glass. "I had a visit from Purdey, right before I left."

Emma's smile was self-congratulatory. "And what did she say?"

"A lot of things."

"Give me the condensed version."

Gambit's mouth quirked up on one side. "Let's just say I feel wanted again."

"I don't believe you ever weren't wanted," Emma declared, "but I'm happy for you all the same."

"Thanks, but sometimes knowing isn't enough. Sometimes you need proof." Gambit worked his jaw slightly. "Peter asked if you sent me, if I was in league with Steed." He held her gaze. "Does he know...?"

Emma turned her back on him to walk to where the drinks were. "There isn't anything to know. I may have left him, but it doesn't follow that I did it to go to someone else."

"And you didn't," Gambit agreed. "At least, not for a couple of years, until you crashed that party just to hang about in the shadows, which was my territory."

Emma whirled around. "Is there something you want to say?"

Gambit half-shrugged. "Just this. I've been using you, Emma. Just a bit. To see if I get a rise out of Purdey and Steed. I admit that now, even though I don't think I would have when you asked me for this favour. But Emma, I'd just like to know, are you using me a little bit, too, because I'm the closest link you have to Steed?"

Emma pursed her lips. "Mike..."

Gambit ploughed on regardless. "I mean, I know why I sought you out. But you probably would have given me the brush-off if one of my opening lines hadn't been, 'I work with Steed.'"

Emma managed one of her lopsided smiles. "Now you're selling yourself short."

"Thanks." Gambit raised his glass to her. "But I'm a realist. I'm a link to your old life—to Steed. And maybe, just maybe, like me, you were hoping you'd get caught, that Steed would find out you knew me. Break the impasse." He regarded her intently. "I'll understand if that was your reasoning. I'd just like to know what this—" He waved his hand back and forth between them "—is. For future reference."

Emma sighed, leaned back against the sideboard and crossed her arms. "I suppose since I've accused you of something similar, it would be childish for me to deny the same."

"Not really, if it was the truth," Gambit said matter-of-factly, joining her against the sideboard. "But I've been wondering about this for awhile now, and I get the feeling you're not going to deny it."

Emma tipped her head back. "At first, maybe," she confessed. "Not only because of Steed, but because it was nice to have someone to talk to, about those days. I've signed so many confidentiality agreements, and there was only so much I could confide to anyone—friends, family, business associates. Peter. That work, that life, it changes you, and it's very frustrating to not be able to explain why. You were the first person I met in all the years after I left that I could talk to without censoring myself. And it was such a relief. Furthermore, I do miss the work. More than I should. Whenever you spoke of an assignment, I felt as though I was living vicariously through you. I could feel that same rush in my veins." She looked down, looking mildly ashamed. "So I suppose I used you several ways."

Gambit tilted his head to one side philosophically. "Nice way to be used."

Emma shot him a glance. "It's not like that any longer, Mike. You should know that. You're a very good friend, connections aside."

Gambit smiled appreciatively, but there was a telltale crease between his eyes, the one Purdey referred to as his '11'. "Why don't you just call Steed? Ask him to dinner, for drinks, anything. He'd jump at the chance. Why do you keep waiting for him to make the first move?"

Emma shook her head. "I'm not sitting here, pining away, waiting to be rescued, if that's what you're implying," she shot back, with just a touch of steel to her voice. "You must understand—when I left, after Peter was found, I was thoughtless. I should have contacted Steed as soon as I'd wrapped my own mind around it, and told him what had happened. As it was, he found out with the rest of England, in the morning papers." She wrinkled her mouth in annoyance. "I went to his flat later that morning, and he knew, of course. I said good-bye right then and there, and left immediately with Peter. I ended it, and I did it on my own terms, without any sort of courtesy extended to him." She pushed her hair back from her forehead, self-recriminating annoyance written all over her features. "I chose to leave that way, my way, because I was too cowardly to do anything more than cut-and-run. I can't do that, and then simply walk back into his life whenever it takes my fancy. It wouldn't be fair to Steed, just as it wasn't then." She met Gambit's eyes. "That's why I don't call him. When—if-he chooses to contact me, it'll be on his terms, because he's willing to take the chance. Until then..." She trailed off. There was nothing more to be said.

Gambit finished his drink, set the empty glass down on the sideboard. "I understand, though I think he'd be all right with it even if you imposed. But it's not my business." He took her left hand, gave it a squeeze. "But it is my business to get back there before my curfew kicks in. I have to go back to working for the other side."

Emma smirked. "I thought you made a very good double agent."

"Maybe, but I don't think my nerves could take it, and I don't think Steed and Purdey would be too pleased about it, either." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Emma nodded at the darkening scene outside her window. "You'd better get going. They'll be expecting you at six."


	8. Home

The Favour

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own _The New Avengers,_ nor any of the associated characters. They belong to The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises. I don't own _The Avengers_, either, or any of its characters. They belong to Canal+ (Image) International. This story is written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement intended.

Timeline: Part of the arc continuity, somewhere in the early parts of 1977/season 2, between _Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit_ and _Brazil. _I suppose you could call it part 5.5 in the arc series, a little detour off the arc's usual beaten path. No prior knowledge of the rest of the series required for this one, though a knowledge of the early episodes of season 2 would give you a little context. If you're new to the whole arc series, please see my profile for an explanation (and more reading material, if you're interested).

Author's Note: And here, finally, is the last chapter. I've only just realised it's been four months since I started posting this story. I really hadn't meant to drag it out quite this long, but that's how it works when life won't give you time to update. Starting tomorrow, I'll be uploading something in keeping with the season. Further notes follow the end of the chapter.

* * *

Purdey stood outside Steed's vestibule, barely sheltered from the pounding rain beneath the small chamber's overhanging roof. The thick, heavy drops fell to earth with noisy, wet splats, missing her nose by mere inches. Purdey crossed her arms and hugged herself against the evening chill. She hadn't bothered to put a coat on before she ventured outside, and the three-quarter length sleeves of her slate-grey sheath were hardly adequate to offer much protection from the cold. She knew she could retrieve something warmer at any time, that it was just a matter of turning around, going back inside, finding her coat thrown randomly over one of Steed's chairs, and coming back out again. She probably wouldn't miss anything in the interim. At this point, she was almost certain she wouldn't, if the singular lack of activity in the past half hour was anything to go by, but at this point she had convinced herself that to let her eyes leave the distant point that represented the start of Steed's driveway would be to invite disaster. Purdey didn't like to think she was superstitious, but there was something about the performing arts that instilled a certain degree of belief in the power of things like ritual, concentration, and sheer will, and the consequences that would follow if any of those were broken. She knew too little to do anything of consequence, anything that would affect that evening's outcome. All she could do was wait, and will, and she was determined to do those things to the best of her ability. And if she put a coat on, she'd be admitting to herself that she might be waiting out here for much, much longer than she'd hoped she would have to, possibly forever, and that would never do. So she'd come out here at 5:25 pm, and she wasn't going anywhere until she heard the crunch of gravel under tyres, and glimpsed a flash of a red Jaguar behind bright headlights.

She heard a click over her right shoulder, and Steed emerged from the house, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her just outside the range of the rain. Purdey chanced a quick glance his way—he hadn't put a coat, either, braving the elements in his suit. Purdey allowed herself a lightning-quick smile at their mutual stubbornness and inability to accept a long wait.

Steed spoke. "You really ought to wait inside, Purdey. You'll catch a chill if you stay out here much longer."

"I'm part Scottish. I have a strong disposition," Purdey quipped, trying to disguise her worry behind a carefree lilt in her voice. "Anyway, I'm not going to be waiting much longer, am I? Gambit said he'd be here at six. And it's five minutes to six now. I won't catch a chill in five minutes."

"No," Steed conceded. "Not in five minutes, but possibly in thirty-five, and almost certainly if you stay out here much beyond that."

Purdey's head snapped almost-violently in his direction. "What do you mean? Is he going to be late? Do you know something?"

Steed shook his head. "Nothing that's of any use in this particular situation. But you must be realistic, Purdey. There are other factors to take into account, things that could delay him. Trains, traffic, the weather—"

"A bullet to the brain?" Purdey cut in tersely, letting Steed know she didn't appreciate the implication Steed was driving at. "No, Mike promised he'd be here at six. Promised me. And Mike doesn't break his promises."

"Then you have nothing to worry about," Steed said evenly.

Purdey sighed and hugged herself tighter. "Always," she repeated, as though assuring herself. "But..."

Steed arched an interested eyebrow. "I didn't imagine there'd be a 'but' after that."

"There isn't," Purdey agreed. "Well, not usually. But you know Gambit, Steed."

"I'd like to think so."

"Then you know what he's like. Sometimes he doesn't think he needs help, and he doesn't ask for it, even though he should." She bit her lip. "What if he needed help, Steed? What if he made a promise and honestly thought he could keep it because he thought he had everything under control? But what if he didn't? What if something went wrong, and-"

"Speculation," Steed interrupted. "All of it. And at the moment it doesn't do us any good at all, because there's nothing we can do until he either arrives or doesn't arrive. If he does, then there's nothing more to be said. If he doesn't, we'll have to decide how long to wait. Only when we've waited longer than we know we should have to does speculation come into it. But until then, we wait, and we expect everything to go to plan."

Purdey looked at him hard. "Do you think he's going to come back, Steed? What does your instinct tell you?"

"To trust Gambit," Steed said truthfully. "For better or worse. Regardless of what happens."

"Something is going on, then," Purdey said, almost bitterly. "He_ is_ doing something he shouldn't be."

"I never said that."

Purdey's mouth crinkled in annoyance. "But you just said—"

"I said we should trust Gambit," Steed reiterated, turning level grey eyes on her. "That could mean trusting him to not be involved in anything at all, or trusting him to make the right decision if he is involved in something. Either scenario calls for us to do the same thing, so it doesn't particularly matter what Gambit is doing, or isn't doing." He arched an interested eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you don't trust him, in which case you might have to rethink your plan of action."

"Of course I trust him!" Purdey shot back, outraged. "I trust him to do the right thing. Always. But the right thing doesn't guarantee that he'll walk away from whatever he's done unharmed."

"No, but his promise should," Steed reminded. "And Gambit never breaks a promise. Isn't that what you said a moment ago?"

Purdey shook her head, gazing out into the grey haze summoned by the rain. "He doesn't. But that doesn't mean he can't be wrong, that he can't miscalculate the odds and end up the worse for it. And you know how stubborn he is about asking for help..."

"That reminds me. I had a call from McBain this morning," Steed said conversationally. "He wanted to know if there was anything out of the ordinary occurring within my team, particularly where Gambit was concerned." He paused, then added, in measured, neutral tones. "I did manage to fob him off, but he'll be watching all of us, especially Gambit, carefully for the next month or so, so we had better hope if he is up to something, it is over tonight." He regarded her with mild disapproval. "You shouldn't have involved him, Purdey. Not before you had more of the facts."

"I had all the facts I was ever going to have," Purdey defended stubbornly, but he could see the guilt in her eyes. "I thought Gambit needed help, and if I was going to help him, I needed someone to help me work out what he was doing. You, McBain. Looking back, I suppose I should have gone to you before him, but I thought Gambit might be involved in something that went beyond you. I needed to rule it out."

"To help Gambit?"

"Yes."

To her surprise, Steed smiled slightly. "And in most circumstances, that would be the correct course of action, and I do hate to sound like the proverbial broken record, but sometimes trust involves not acting at all, not even to help, even if every fibre of our being tells us to do otherwise. Sometimes doing nothing can do more good than doing anything at all. It can be difficult, but also surprisingly easy once you've committed yourself. Knowing when to do nothing and when to do something, that's the tricky part."

Purdey sighed. "I know I sound as though I'm saying one thing, and thinking another. I do trust Gambit. I do. But he's been acting so strangely lately, even before these past few days. It's as though he's been gradually pulling away—from me, from you, from the team. There's this gap between us. Have you noticed how many solo assignments he's been running? And there's this chasm between us, as though he's trying to keep us apart—mentally, emotionally, I don't know. I don't know why it's there, but I do know it's been growing, and has been for the last month or two." She bit her lip and looked down at her shoes. "I worry he might disappear completely one day," she said quietly. "And with that pink and purple pass, I'm terrified he might have finally managed it. Might go from emotionally distant to physically gone, and we won't even know why." She stared at Steed, willing him to understand. "Doesn't that terrify you?"

"In theory, yes," Steed agreed. "But I don't think things have quite deteriorated to the point that we need worry about Gambit floating off into space just yet." He nodded out into the gloom, and Purdey turned back just in time to see the first flash of headlights as they cut through the fog. She felt her heart catch in her throat as they drew nearer, felt relief seep into her bones when she glimpsed the flash of red that followed in the lights' wake, despite being numb with the cold. Eventually the familiar silhouette of the XJS was completely visible in the pouring rain. It pulled up to the vestibule with a crunch of gravel, and a tall, slim figure alighted from the vehicle. Purdey watched his approach, waiting for a last-minute twist that would dash all her hopes. But no, eventually the figure resolved itself into Mike Gambit, who came to a stop just before the single step that would take him up to join them on the vestibule, and stood there, rain drenching his tightly-belted mac.

They stood there, Gambit with water cascading from his sodden hair into his eyes and dripping off the end of his nose, Steed and Purdey unmoved from their vantage point, still dry, separated by a narrow wall of water. It was as though Gambit was waiting for their permission to seek shelter, waiting to see if he truly was an outsider now, if he had severed the bonds between them in a last-ditch effort to prove they still existed.

Purdey's eyes met Gambit's. He could see there was annoyance there, and fear, and confusion. But there was also relief, and Gambit soon felt that same sensation sweep over himself.

Suddenly, Purdey's shoulders relaxed, and her crossed arms went from a tight embrace to folded in an expression of her annoyance, and said, "You'd better come in before you catch a chill. I'm not doing your paperwork if you take ill." And with that, she turned on her heel, and strode, unconcernedly, back into the house.

Gambit grinned, and stepped up to join Steed.

"It's good to have you back," Steed said as the younger man emerged from the rain. "I'd presume I speak for Purdey as well, but I've found it never pays to presume where Purdey is concerned."

"I'll drink to that," Gambit agreed with a chuckle.

"I should think so, after that drenching. There's a very good brandy inside that ought to warm your bones. Very fitting for a homecoming."

Gambit snorted gently. "Homecoming? I was gone for 24 hours."

"Officially, yes," Steed said mildly, not bothering to vocalise the unspoken half of the statement. He didn't need to. Gambit knew what he meant. Unofficially, Gambit knew he'd been gradually pulling back from the team, under the mistaken belief that he was intruding. He'd thought Steed hadn't noticed, hadn't cared. He realised he should have known better.

"I assume there won't be any more unforeseen absences in the future," Steed went on, in a tone that left no doubt that Gambit's grace period was officially over. If he was going to 'go rogue' again, there were going to be consequences.

"Not that I know of," Gambit said truthfully, allowing himself a small smile. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you and Purdey missed me."

"As I said, I can't speak for Purdey," Steed reminded. "And as I said, it's good to have you back." He indicated for Gambit to step through the door. "After you."

And with that, Mike Gambit came in from the cold.

End

* * *

Author's Notes: I know a couple of people were hoping Emma would put in an appearance at the end of this story, but there were a couple of reasons I thought it was important that she never cross paths with Steed and Purdey. The first, most important, one was that this story was really meant to be about the team dynamics in the early part of season 2, after Patrick complained about "being put out to pasture", and ended up with his screentime increased at the expense of Gareth's. Onscreen, it begins to look as though he and Purdey are shutting Gambit out, and Gambit's sort of off doing his own thing. Given how loyal he is to both Steed and Purdey, I don't think Gambit would ever actually say anything about it to either of them, just gradually phase himself out, even if it hurt. Purdey, and even Steed to a degree, do have a tendency to take him for granted, despite all the times he pulls their fat out of the fire, so if they got an inkling that Gambit might be in over his head, it might act as a wake-up call, though they both deal with it in their own respective ways. Hopefully after this chapter, Purdey's actions throughout the fic make sense. Anyway, the upshot is I wanted the focus to be on the reunion of the team, and having Emma there at the end would have made it more about her.

The other reason to leave Emma out at the end was simply for reasons of my own continuity. Since this story fits within the confines of the Arc, I've already dealt with Emma's reunion with Steed (and first encounter with Purdey) in my fic "Brazil." So if anyone's interested in Emma playing a more active part in the proceedings, I'll point you in that direction.

Anyway, thank you once again for all the lovely reviews, and I hope you enjoyed the story wrap-up. As promised, I'll start posting something seasonal starting tomorrow. Stay tuned...


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